Gateway to the Great Books 1-1 - Encyclopedia Britannica_7261 (1).pdf

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Contents INTRODUCTION & SYNTOPICAL GUIDE VOLUME 1 IMAGINATIVE LITERATURE VOLUME 2 IMAGINATIVE LITERATURE VOLUME 3 IMAGINATIVE LITERATURE VOLUME 4 CRITICAL ESSAYS VOLUME 5 HUMANITY AND SOCIETY VOLUME 6 HUMANITY AND SOCIETY VOLUME 7 NATURAL SCIENCE VOLUME 8 MATHEMATICS VOLUME 9 PHILOSOPHICAL ESSAYS VOLUME 10 Gateway to the Great Books

GATEWAY TO THE GREAT BOOKS ROBERT M. HUTCHINS, MORTIMER J. ADLER Editors in Chief CLIFTON FADIMAN Associate Editor 1 I NTRODUCTION SYNTOP ICAL G U I DE JACOB E. SAFRA Chairman, Board of Directors JORG E AG U I LAR- CAUZ, President ENCYCLOPÆDIA BRITAN NICA, INC. C H I C A G O L O N D O N N E W D E L H I PA R I S S E O U L S Y D N E Y TA I P E I T O K Y O

© 1990, 1963 Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc. All rights reserved International Standard Book Number: 978-1-59339-221-5 No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. Note on Texts and Text Illustrations The spelling and punctuation of certain texts in this set have been changed in accordance with modern British and American usage. Translations and transliterations added by the editors are enclosed in brackets. Text illustrations in Volumes 8 and 9 have been revised and adapted to show modern equipment. Portraits of authors in Volumes 2 through 10 are by Fred Steffen of Chicago

iii Contents of Volume 1 I N T R O D U C T I O N I The Ways—and Whys—of Reading 1 II Human Imagination 20 III Human Society 37 IV Science and Mathematics 58 V Philosophy 72 VI The Endless Journey 89 S Y N T O P I C A L G U I D E 92 A P P E N D I X A Plan of Graded Reading 309

1 Introduction I The Ways—and Whys—of Reading Great Books and the Gateway to Them The works in this set are outstanding creations of the humanmind, but they are not of the same order as the works included in Great Books of the Western World. They consist of short stories, plays, essays, scientific papers, speeches, or letters; and in some cases they are relatively short selections from much larger works. In contrast, Great Books of the Western World generally contains whole books or extensive collections of books. The works in that set not only have a certain magnitude, but they also occupy a unique place in the formation and development of Western culture. Each of them represents a primary, original, and fundamental contribution to our understanding of the universe and of ourselves. It has been said of them that they are books which never have to be written again, that they are inexhaustibly rereadable, that they are always contemporary, and that they are at once the most intelligible books (because so lucidly written) and the most rewarding to understand (because they deal with the most important and profound subjects). It has also been said of them that they are the repository and reservoir of the relatively small number of great ideas which we have forged in our efforts to understand the world and our place in it; and that they are over everyone’s head all of

Gateway to the Great Books2 the time, which gives them the inexhaustible power to elevate all of us who will make the effort to lift our minds by reaching up to the ideas they contain. The works included in Gateway to the Great Books have some of the special attributes which distinguish the great books. Some of the things which have been said of the great books can also be said of them. The works in this set are, each of them, masterpieces of the imagination or intellect. Many of them are modern, even recent; some were written in ages past; but they are all forever contemporary. In whatever time or place we live, they speak to us of our own condition. Like the great books, they are readable again and again, with renewed pleasure and added profit. And like the great books, they throw light on as well as draw light from the great ideas. They, too, have the power to lift our minds up to new levels of enjoyment, new levels of insight, new levels of understanding. They have that power by virtue of holding out more to understand than most of us can manage to understand in a first reading. And if we make the effort to understand more in subsequent readings, they sustain such effort by the intellectual excitement they afford us—the excitement and the challenge of coming to closer grips with the great mysteries of nature and human nature, the order of the universe and the course of human history. Like the great books in these respects, the selections included in this set are entitled to be regarded as proper companions to the greatest works of the human mind. That, however, does not fully describe the function they are intended to perform. They are more than just companion pieces. We have another and what seems to us a more important reason for associating the contents of these volumes with the contents of Great Books of the Western World. Because this set consists of much shorter works and, on the whole, of things somewhat easier to read, we think that the reading of the selections here included will effectively serve as an introduction to the reading of the great books. That is why we have called this set a gateway to the great books. Readers who open their minds to all, or even to some, of the works in this set, have opened the gates for themselves and are on the high road to the world of ideas and the lifetime of learning which the great books make accessible. More than half of the contents of this set consists of stories and plays, essays, speeches, and letters. Good writing of this kind almost has to be about things and experiences and feelings which are famil-

TH E WAYS (AN D WHYS) OF READI NG 3 iar to every human being; and when the writing is of a high order of excellence, as it is in the case of all the selections here included, it deals with the familiar aspects of life in a way that is at once lively and illuminating. Readers are quickly entertained and, to the extent that they are entertained (which means that their attention is held with delight), they read—and learn. While the political, scientific, and philosophical readings in Gateway to the Great Books must be read with more conscious effort to attend to what they try to teach us, they nevertheless remain easier than the basic political, scientific, and philosophical treatises in Great Books of the Western World. In part, this is due to their brevity; in part, it must be also said that what they try to teach us is more readily grasped. All the works included in this set are comprehensible to any reader who will give them the measure of attention which they require. That requirement is easy to fulfill, and can be fulfilled with pleasure, precisely because all these works have the quality of entertainment. Entertaining books invite and sustain our attention, delighting us at the same time that they profit us. The pleasure and profit that readers derive from this set of books should—and, the editors think, will— help them to develop the habits and improve the skills which should make the great books easier for them to read, some at the same time, some later. Kinds of Reading Matter Different kinds of reading matter call for different kinds of reading. Readers must, first of all, decide what type of reading matter they have at hand; and they must then read it accordingly. Every piece of reading matter that comes before our eyes is not equally worth reading; nor do all make equal claims on our attention. All do not deserve from us the same devotion to the task of considering what the writer has in mind—what he is trying to teach us or to make us feel. A telephone book, an airline timetable, or a manual for operating a washing machine may be useful or even indispensable reading, requiring attention to certain details; but these certainly do not deserve sustained study or devoted consideration. Most periodicals that come our way do not deserve more than passing attention. And what is called “light reading” is no different from most television

Gateway to the Great Books4 programs or motion pictures, which succeed only if they give us the relaxation that we seek from them. Whatever use or value these things may have for us, they are seldom worth reading twice, and none of them is worth reading over and over again. The great books, and the smaller masterpieces that constitute a gateway to them, exert a whole series of claims upon us that other kinds of reading seldom make. They have treasures to yield, and they will not yield their treasures without our digging. They will not give something to us unless we give something to them. Such works command our interest, our humility, and our fidelity. They have much to teach us—if we want to learn. These are the works which are most worth reading for the first time, precisely because we will find, on that first reading, that they deserve to be read over and over again. It might almost be said that a book which is not worth rereading one or more times is not really worth reading carefully in the first place. Like the great books, the works in this set are not idle-hour affairs, mere time passers like picture magazines. None of them is a sedative compounded of paper and ink. Every one of them calls for and deserves active, as contrasted with merely passive, reading on our part. Young people—and older ones—who in ages past had access to only a few books in a lifetime knew how to read them without being told. We all know to what good use young Abraham Lincoln, by the light of the log fire, put the Bible, Euclid, Blackstone, Bunyan, and a few other books. He, and others like him, read not only with eyes wide open but also with a mind fully awake—awake because it was intensely active in an effort to get, by reading, everything that the writer had to offer. We need to remind ourselves of this bygone situation in which a book was a lifelong treasure, to be read again and again. Deluged as we are with a welter of printed words, we tend to devaluate all writing, to look at every book on the shelf as the counterpart of every other, and to weigh volumes instead of words. The proliferation of printing, on the one hand a blessing, has had, on the other, a tendency to debase (or, in any case, homogenize) our attitude toward reading. What was true centuries ago is still true: there are great books and masterpieces of writing which can entertain us while they enlighten us; there are merely useful books or printed materials which we go to only for specific facts or instruction; there are trivial books which,

TH E WAYS (AN D WHYS) OF READI NG 5 like the average detective story, amuse us briefly or help us pass the time, and then disappear forever from mind and memory; and there is trash, like many magazine, paperback, or even hardcover romances which actually dull our taste for better things. Of these, only the first constitute the readables which deserve our effort to keep as wide awake as possible while reading. We can do that only by reading as actively as possible. How does one do that? The answer is easier to give than to apply, but readers who want to get the most out of the works that are most worth reading can do what is required, if they apply their wills to the task. And the more they are willing to do what is required, the easier they will find it to do. What is required of readers who wish to be wakeful and active in the process of reading is simply the asking of questions. They must ask questions while they read—questions which they themselves must try to answer in the course of reading. The art of reading a book or piece of writing consists in asking the right questions in the right order. They are as follows: (1) What is this piece of writing about? What is its leading theme or main point? What is it trying to say? (2) How does it say what it is trying to say? How does the writer get his central point across? How does he tell his story or argue for his conclusion to produce the effect in us that he is aiming at? (3) Is it true—factually or poetically—in whole or part? Has the writer won our assent or sympathy? And if not, what reasons do we have for disagreeing with or rejecting his view of things? (4) What of it? What meaning does it have for us in the shape of opinions or attitudes that we are led to form for ourselves as the result of reading this piece? These four questions underlie and motivate all the specific things that we have to do in order to read well what is worth reading well. We shall state these more specific recommendations presently; but first it is necessary to observe the difference between fiction and nonfiction as objects of our active attention in reading; and, among nonfiction works, the difference between writings in the field of history and politics, writings in the sphere of natural science and mathematics, and writings in the realm of philosophy.

Gateway to the Great Books6 The Four Colors In the binding of Gateway to the Great Books, four different colors, based on traditional academic insignia for the various arts and sciences, are used to signify four types of subject matter to be found in this set. Yellow in the binding signifies works of the imagination— epic and dramatic poetry, novels, and essays. Blue in the binding signifies biographies and histories, treatises in politics, economics, and jurisprudence. Green in the binding signifies major contributions to the fields of mathematics and the natural sciences. Red in the binding signifies the great works in philosophy and theology. Gateway to the Great Books is divided into these four kinds of writing for good and sufficient reason. We have but to consider the subject matter of the various courses that we take in high school and college— no matter what their titles—to realize that most of those of importance fall into one or another of these four categories. Nor is there any mystery about it: all writing may be thus partitioned because the resulting parts represent four aspects of ourselves as we use words to communicate what we know, think, feel, or intend. First, we are all storytellers, listeners to stories, and critics of the stories we hear. Imaginative literature, represented by Volumes 2–5 of this set, is native to the life of every human being. Second, as free people and citizens, we have always had the responsibility, now heavier than ever before, to deal with the social and political problems which are considered in Volumes 6 and 7. We are called upon to examine ourselves in the light of our past and future. These are illuminated by the historical and biographical writings contained in Volumes 6 and 7. Third, the most distinctive characteristics of our modern world are the product of inventions and technology which are, in turn, the product of scientific discovery and mathematical theory, the two inseparable subjects dealt with in Volumes 8 and 9. Some understanding of these fields is essential if we wish to feel at home in the rapidly changing environment of the twentieth century. Finally, every man and woman who has ever lived has asked, from childhood and youth on, What am I? How should I think? What is the meaning of life? How should I live? These are some of the philosophical questions which persons of wisdom, in every age, have considered and tried to answer. Such considerations appear in Volume 10 of Gateway to the Great Books.

TH E WAYS (AN D WHYS) OF READI NG 7 To say that these are four different kinds of writing—writings about four different kinds of subjects—is not enough. They represent four different kinds of thinking, too. And they reflect four different aspects of our one human nature. They are four in one, at once different and the same. Since these four kinds of writings all spring from the human mind, and since that is a unity, so in the end all thought is unified. The mind is not four separate compartments. No single thought is unrelated to any other. Our ideas, beliefs, sentiments, and fancies do not exist in isolation, to be collected artificially and arbitrarily. Neither is a set of volumes representing all the major aspects of human thought and feeling an aggregation of snippets. For all its diversification of content, Gateway to the Great Books has an underlying unity—the unity of the human mind itself. Most of the writers in this set, though they lived at different times and had special interests and abilities, are talking to each other across the centuries. Like the authors of the great books, they are engaged in a continuing conversation. They are talking to each other through the walls that seem to separate the physicist from the novelist, the philosopher from the historian; for all are involved in a common adventure—the unending exploration of the human condition, of the mind and imagination, of our earth-home, and of the illimitable cosmos of which we are, though a small part, by far the most interesting members. Those who read and reread all the selections in this whole set—and that may take a long time—will in the end gain a vision of this common adventure and sense the unity which underlies the whole. But in the beginning, as readers thread their way among the many different strands here woven together, they would be well advised to observe the differences in the four kinds of writing included in this set. They have to be read differently. Each of them has to be approached with a special attitude, a particular frame of mind. Confusion and bewilderment would result from our addressing a poet as if he were a mathematician, a philosopher as if he were a historian, or a historian as if he were a scientist. So, too, we would tend to confuse and bewilder ourselves if we failed to distinguish between fiction and nonfiction, or between philosophy and science, history and mathematics, and read them as if they were all the same. These different kinds of writing require different kinds of reading on our part, because to read them well—with an active mind—we

Gateway to the Great Books8 must ask different sorts of questions as we read. Unless we know what to look for (and how to look for it) in each kind of reading that we do, we shall demand of fiction knowledge it cannot give us, ascribe to history values it does not have, ask science for opinions that lie wholly outside its scope, and expect philosophy to produce a mode of proof that is impossible for it to achieve. Some Rules of Reading So basic are the differences among various kinds of writing that it is almost impossible to formulate rules of reading which are general enough to apply to every kind of writing in the same way. But there is one rule which takes account of this very fact; for it recommends that we pay attention, first of all, to the character of the writing before us. Is it fiction or nonfiction? And if the latter, what sort of expository writing is it—criticism, history, political theory, social commentary, mathematics, science, or philosophy? There is one other rule which applies to every piece of writing, insofar as it has the excellence that is common to all pieces of writing that are works of art, whether they are imaginative or expository writing. A work of art has unity. Readers must apprehend this unity. It may be the unity of a story or of a play, or the unity of a historical narrative, a scientific theory, a mathematical analysis, a philosophical argument. But whatever it is, it can be stated simply as a kind of summary of what the whole work or piece of writing is about. Readers should make the effort to say what the whole is about in a few sentences. When they have done this, they have answered for themselves the first of the four questions which should be asked about anything worth reading actively and with a mind fully awake.1 Since a work of art is a complex unity, a whole consisting of parts, readers should also try to say what the major parts of the work are, and how they are ordered to one another and to the whole. The rules to which we now turn apply most readily to nonfiction (expository writing of all sorts), though, as we shall presently see, corresponding rules can be stated for guidance in the reading of imaginative literature. The writer of an expository work is usually engaged in solving a problem or a set of problems. Hence the reader, in dealing with such 1See p. 5 above for an enumeration of the four questions.

TH E WAYS (AN D WHYS) OF READI NG 9 works as wholes, should try to summarize the problems which the author posed and tried to solve. What are they? How are they related to one another? Knowing the author’s problems is necessary to any understanding of the answers he tries to give and to the judgment we make of his success or failure in giving them. Examining a piece of writing as a whole and as an orderly arrangement of parts is only one approach to it. It constitutes one way of reading a book or anything less than a book which has artistic unity. A second approach involves attention to the language of the author, with concern not only for his use of words and the manner in which he expresses his meaning, but also for the verbal formulation of his opinions and the reasons that he has for holding them. Here readers should do a number of things, in successive steps, each a way of trying to get at the thought of the writer by penetrating through his language to his mind. Readers should, first of all, try to come to terms with the author, that is, try to discover the basic terms which express the author’s central notions or ideas. This can be done only by noting the words carefully and discovering the five or ten (rarely more than twenty) which constitute the author’s special vocabulary. Finding such words or phrases will lead readers to the writer’s basic terms. Thus, for example, a careful reader of Calhoun’s “The Concurrent Majority” from A Disquisition on Government (Volume 7) can come to terms with Calhoun only by discovering what he means by such words or phrases as “constitution,” “numerical majority,” “concurrent majority,” “interposition,” “nullification,” and “veto.” A term is a word used unambiguously. It is a word tied down to a special meaning which does not change within the context of a particular piece of writing. We come to terms with an author by noting the one or more meanings with which he uses the words in his own special vocabulary. Good writers are usually helpful, indicating explicitly by verbal qualifications—such as quotation marks, underlining, or parenthetical explanations—that a word is now being used in one sense and now in another; but even the best writers frequently depend upon the context to provide such qualifications. This requires the reader to do the work of interpretation which is involved in coming to terms. Language is a difficult and imperfect medium. For the transmission of thought or knowledge, there must be communication, which can occur only when writer and reader have a common understand-

Gateway to the Great Books10 ing of the words which pass from one to the other. Terms made by the one and discovered by the other produce communication. Coming to terms underlies all the subsequent acts of interpretation on the part of the reader. Terms are the building blocks of propositions, and propositions are put together in arguments. The next two steps in the process of interpretation concern the author’s propositions and arguments—represented on the printed page by sentences and paragraphs, just as terms are represented there by words and phrases. Readers should try to find out what the author is affirming and denying—what his bedrock assertions are. To do this, they must spot the crucial sentences in the text, the sentences in which the author expresses the opinions which are central in his mind. Most of the sentences in a piece of writing are not crucial. Only a few set forth the propositions which the author is undertaking to defend. Spotting these is not enough. We must know what they mean. There are two simple ways in which we can test our understanding of the crucial sentences in an author’s work. First, can we say precisely in our own words what the author is saying in his; that is, can we extract the author’s meaning from his words by translating it into another form of speech? Second, can we think of examples that clearly illustrate the author’s meaning or apply it to concrete experiences? The third step of interpretative reading requires us to look for and find the key paragraphs which express the writer’s basic arguments in support of the opinions that he wishes to persuade us to accept. An argument is a sequence of propositions, having a beginning in principles and an end in conclusions. It may be simple, or it may be complex, having simpler arguments as parts. Sometimes the writer will put his whole argument down in one place in the form of a summary paragraph; but more frequently the reader must piece together the parts of the argument by connecting sentences, or parts of paragraphs, which are on different pages. The first of the suggested approaches to reading a book or piece of writing is analytical: it dissects a whole work into its parts and relates the parts. The second is interpretative: it attempts to construe what a writer means from what he says. There is a third approach, which should follow and complement the other two. It is critical. Here the task is to judge a piece of writing in terms of the truth and falsity of its basic propositions, both its principles and its

TH E WAYS (AN D WHYS) OF READI NG 11 conclusions, in terms of the cogency or soundness of its arguments, and in terms of the adequacy or completeness of its analysis. It is at this stage or in this phase of reading that readers must decide whether they agree or disagree with the writer, or determine the extent of this agreement or disagreement. In doing this, they should be governed by a number of rules or maxims. The first is that readers should neither agree nor disagree with an author until they are sure that they understand what the author is saying. To agree with what you do not understand is inane; to disagree in the absence of understanding is impertinent. Many readers start to disagree with what they are reading almost at once—before they have performed the tasks of analysis and interpretation which should always precede that of criticism. In effect, they are saying to an author: “I don’t know what you are talking about, but I think you are wrong.” It would be just as silly for them to say “right” as it is for them to say “wrong.” In either case, they are expressing prejudices rather than undertaking genuine criticism, which must be based on understanding. This rule calls for patience and humility on the reader’s part. If we are reading anything worth reading—anything which has the power to instruct us and elevate our minds—we should be loath to judge it too soon, for it would be rash to presume that we have so quickly attained an adequate understanding of it. If we suspect that we have fallen short in our understanding, we should always blame ourselves rather than the author. Not only is that the proper attitude if the author is worth reading at all; but, in addition, such an attitude may keep our mind on the task of interpretation. There is always time for criticism after that is well done. A second maxim by which we should be guided can be stated thus: there is no point in winning an argument if we know, or even suspect, that we are wrong. This is an important rule of intellectual behavior in face-to-face discussions—one, unfortunately, which is frequently violated. It is even more important in the very special one-way conversation that a good reader carries on with an author. The author is not there to defend himself. Disagreement with an author demands the utmost in intellectual decency on the part of the reader. A third closely related maxim recommends to readers that they should not undertake criticism unless they are as willing to agree as to disagree—unless they are prepared to agree intelligently as well

Gateway to the Great Books12 as to disagree intelligently. In either case, critical readers should be able to give reasons for the position that they take. The reasons for disagreement can be roughly grouped under four headings. We may disagree (1) because we think that the author is uninformed on some essential point that is relevant to his conclusions; or (2) because we think that he is uninformed about some equally essential consideration, which would alter the course of his argument if he were aware of it; or (3) because we think that he has committed some fallacy or error in reasoning; or (4) because we think that his analysis, however sound in its bases and its reasoning, is incomplete. In every one of these instances, we are under an obligation to be able to prove the charge that we are making. Authors and their works are finite and fallible, every last one; but a writer of eminence is ordinarily more competent in his field than the reader, upon whom, therefore, the heavy burden of proof is imposed. The foregoing rules, as already pointed out, apply primarily to expository writing rather than to imaginative literature—fiction in the form of novels, short stories, or plays. Nevertheless, they do suggest analogous recommendations for the reader to follow in reading fiction. As terms, propositions, and arguments are the elements involved in the interpretative approach to expository writing, so the cast of characters, their actions and passions, their thought and speech, the sequence of events, and the plot together with its subplots are the things with which readers must concern themselves in interpreting a work of fiction. As factual truth and logical cogency are central considerations in the criticism of expository writing, so a narrative’s verisimilitude or credibility (its poetic truth) and its unity, clarity, and coherence (its artistic beauty) are important objects of criticism in the case of fiction. It is possible to offer a few other recommendations that are especially appropriate to imaginative literature, and applicable to the varied assortment of stories and plays in Volumes 2, 3, and 4. In every piece of fiction to be found there, the subject matter of the writer is men and women. But this subject matter is approached in a way that is quite different from that employed by the historian, the psychologist, or the moral philosopher, all of whom are concerned with human character and conduct, too. The imaginative writer approaches this subject matter indirectly and, in a sense, subjectively. Writers of fiction see men and women partially, in terms of their

TH E WAYS (AN D WHYS) OF READI NG 13 own limited temperaments, their own overriding passions, and also in terms of the willingness of the characters, as it were, to subject themselves to the particular pattern or frame that the author has in mind. Dickens, in The Pickwick Papers, and Mark Twain, in The Man that Corrupted Hadleyburg, are placed side by side in Volume 2. But in other ways they are far apart. To sense the distance separating them, readers need only ask this simple question after they have read these two stories: Which seems to like mankind more? Readers will then become aware that these two storytellers hold different views of mankind—each has a personal, partial view with its own partial truth. To read fiction with pleasure, readers must abandon themselves for the moment to the writer’s partial vision. As we read more and more imaginative literature, we will begin, almost unconsciously, to obtain new insights from each of the authors. Finally, it may be helpful to point out a few differences between imaginative and expository literature, from the point of view of what is involved in reading them carefully and well. A story must be apprehended as a whole, whereas an expository treatise can be read in parts. One cannot read enough of a story, short of the whole, “to get the idea”; but one can read a portion of a scientific or philosophical work and yet learn something of what the author is driving at. An expository work may require us to read other works by the same or different authors in order to understand it fully, but a story requires the reading of nothing outside itself. It stands entirely by itself. It presents a whole world—for us to experience and enjoy. The ultimate unity of an expository work, especially in the fields of political theory, natural science, mathematics, and philosophy, lies in a problem or a set of related problems to be solved. The unity of a narrative lies in its plot. There is a fundamental difference in the use of language by imaginative and expository writers. In exposition, the aim of a good writer is to avoid ambiguity by a literal or precise use of words. Imaginative writers often seek to utilize ambiguity, and they do this by recourse to metaphor and simile and other figures of speech. The use of language moves in one direction when its ultimate aim is to accord with fact, and in another when its ultimate aim is to give wings to fancy. And, lastly, the difference between imaginative literature and ex-

Gateway to the Great Books14 pository writing calls for different types of criticism on the reader’s part. Aristotle pointed out that “the standard of correctness is not the same in poetry and politics,” which we can generalize by saying that the soundness of a fictional narrative is not to be judged in the same way as the soundness of a scientific or philosophical exposition. In the latter, the standard is objective truth; in the former, internal plausibility. To be true in its own way, fiction need not portray the world as it actually is. Its truth is not that of simple factual realism or representation. Its truth depends upon an internal necessity and probability. Characters and action must fit together to make the narrative a likely story. However fanciful the story may be, it has the ring of truth if it is believable as we read it—if we can feel at home in the world that the imaginative writer has created for us. The differences that we have pointed out between imaginative and expository writing should not be allowed to obscure the fact that there are mixed works—works which somehow participate in the qualities of both types. One example of this will suffice. Historical narratives are, in a way, mixtures of poetic and scientific or philosophical writing. They offer us knowledge or information about the past, gained by methodical investigation or research, but that knowledge or information comes to us in the form of a story, with a sequence of events, a cast of characters, and a plot. Hence histories must be read in both ways. They must be judged by the standard of objective truth—truth of fact—and also by the standard of internal plausibility—truth of fiction. Some Further Suggestions to the Reader One way of putting into practice the rules of reading outlined in the preceding pages is to read with a pencil in hand—to mark the pages being read, without scruples about damaging the volume. Marking a book is not an act of mutilation, but one of love. Of course, no one should mark a book that one does not own. But the books that we buy, we are at liberty to mark or write in as we read. Buying a book is only a prelude to owning it. To own a book involves more than paying for it and putting it on the shelf in one’s home. Full ownership comes only to those who have made the books they have bought part of themselves—by absorbing and digesting them. The well-marked pages of a much-handled volume constitute one of the surest indications that this has taken place.

TH E WAYS (AN D WHYS) OF READI NG 15 Too many persons make the mistake of substituting economic possession or physical proprietorship for intellectual ownership. They substitute a sense of power over the physical book for a genuine grasp of its contents. Having a fine library does not prove that its legal owner has a mind enriched by books. It proves only that he was rich enough to buy them. If someone has a handsome collection of volumes—unread, untouched—we know that this person regards books as part of the home furnishings. But if the books, many or few, are dog-eared and dilapidated, shaken and loosened by continual use, marked and scribbled in from cover to cover, then we know that the owner has come into the full ownership of the books. Why is marking a book so important a part of reading it? It helps to keep you awake while reading—not merely conscious, but mentally alert. And since reading, if it is an active process, involves thinking, and thinking tends to express itself in words, spoken or written, writing in the book enables readers to express their thoughts while reading. Marking a book thus turns the reader into a writer, engaged, as it were, in a conversation with the author. There are many ways of marking a book intelligently and fruitfully. As one discovers the terms, propositions, and arguments in an expository work, one can mark them by underlining or by asterisks, vertical lines, or arrows in the margin. Key words or phrases can be circled; the successive steps of an argument can be numbered in the margin. Imaginative works can be similarly treated: underlining or marginal notations can be used to mark significant developments in character, crucial turns in plot, or revelations of insight by the author himself. In addition, one should not hesitate to use the margin, or the top or bottom of the page, to record questions that the text arouses in one’s mind, or to jot down one’s own comments about the significance of what is being read. The margins of a book, or the space between its lines, may not afford enough room to record the thoughts of intensive readers. In that case, they should read with a scratch pad in hand. The sheets of paper on which the notations have been made can then be inserted into the book at appropriate places. The person who marks a book cannot read it as quickly as one who reads it passively or merely flips its pages inattentively. Far from being an objection to marking books, this fact constitutes one of the strongest recommendations for doing it. It is a widely prevalent fallacy that speed of reading is a measure of intelligence.

Gateway to the Great Books16 There is no right speed for intelligent reading. Some things should be read quickly and effortlessly, some should be read slowly and even laboriously. The sign of intelligence in reading is the ability to read different things differently according to their worth. With regard to the great books, or with regard to the selections in this set, the point is not to see how many of them you can get through, but rather to see how many can get through you—how many you can make your own. Most things worth reading carefully are likely to present some difficulties to the reader on a first reading. These difficulties tend to slow us up. But we should never allow them to stop us in our tracks. Readers who bog down completely because they cannot fully understand some statement or reference in the course of their reading fail to recognize that no one can be expected to achieve complete understanding of a significant work on the first go at it. A first reading is bound to be a relatively superficial one, as compared with the reading in greater and greater depth that can be done when one rereads the same work later. Readers who realize this should adopt the following rule in reading worthwhile materials for the first time. The rule is simply to read the work through without stopping to puzzle out the things one does not fully understand on that first reading. Failure to clear all the hurdles should not lead one to give up the race. The things which may be stumbling blocks on the first reading can be surmounted on later readings, but only if they are not allowed to become insuperable obstacles that prevent the first reading from being completed. Readers should pay attention to what they can understand, and not be stopped by what they do not immediately grasp. Go right on reading past the point where you have difficulties in understanding, and you will soon come again to paragraphs and pages that you readily understand. Read the work through, undeterred by paragraphs, arguments, names, references, and allusions that escape you. If you let yourself get tripped up by any of these stumbling blocks, if you get stalled by them, you are lost. In most cases, it is not possible to puzzle the thing out by sticking to it. You will have a much better chance of understanding it on a second reading, but that requires you to have read the work through at least once. Reading it through the first time, however superficially, breaks the crust of the book or work in hand. It enables readers to get the feel or general sense of what they are reading, and some grasp,

TH E WAYS (AN D WHYS) OF READI NG 17 however incomplete, of what it is all about. It is necessary to get some grasp of the whole before we can see the parts in their true perspective—or, sometimes, in any perspective at all. Most of us were taught in school to pay attention to the things we did not understand. We were told to go to a dictionary when we met with an unfamiliar word. We were told to go to an encyclopedia or some other reference work when we were confronted with allusions or statements we did not understand. We were told to consult footnotes, scholarly commentaries, or other secondary sources in order to get help. Unfortunately, we never received worse advice. The tremendous pleasure that comes from reading Shakespeare was spoiled for generations of high school students who were forced to go through Julius Caesar or Macbeth scene by scene, to look up all the words new to them in a glossary, and to study all the scholarly footnotes. As a result, they never read a play of Shakespeare’s. By the time they got to the end of it, they had forgotten the beginning and lost sight of the whole. Instead of being forced to take this pedantic approach, they should have been encouraged to read the play through at one sitting and discuss what they got out of that first quick reading. Only then, if at all, would they have been ready to study the play carefully, and closely, because they would have understood enough of it to be able to learn more. What is true of reading a play by Shakespeare applies with equal force to all the works included in this set, both the fiction and the nonfiction. What first readers of these works will understand by reading each of them through—even if it is only 50 percent or less— will help them to make the additional effort later to go back to the difficult places which they wisely passed over on the first reading. Even if they do not go back, understanding 50 percent of something really worth reading is much better than not understanding it at all, which will certainly be the case if they allow themselves to be stopped by the first difficult passage they come to. There are some technical books—usually written by professors for professors, and in the jargon of the trade—which are not only difficult for first readers, but impossible for the nonprofessional to understand by any means. Such books are difficult because they are written in a way that is not intended for the person of ordinary background and training. In contrast, the great books, and to a lesser extent the masterpieces included in this set, are difficult for a quite different reason.

Gateway to the Great Books18 It is not because the author has not tried to be clear to the ordinary reader. It is not because the author is not a good writer. The difficulty, where it exists, lies in the subject matters being treated and in the ideas being conveyed. Precisely because the authors of Great Books of the Western World and the writers represented in Gateway to the Great Books have a mastery of these difficult subject matters or ideas, do they have the power to deal with them as simply and clearly as possible. Hence they make such material as easy as it can be made for the reader. No major subject of human interest, nor any basic idea, need be a closed book to the ordinary person. On every one of them, there exist great books or masterpieces of writing which afford enlightenment to anyone who will make the effort to read them. However difficult the subject matter being treated or the idea being expounded, these writings help ordinary and inexpert readers to make some headway in understanding if they will only follow the rule of cracking a tough nut by applying pressure at the softest spot. That, in other words, is the rule of paying maximum attention to what you do understand, and not being deterred by what you fail to understand, on the first reading of these works. A Word About What Follows The succeeding sections of this introductory essay will attempt to acquaint the reader with the four types of subject matter which are represented in Gateway to the Great Books. Section II will discuss the works of the imagination that are included in Volumes 2–5; Section III, the writings about man and society that are included in Volumes 6 and 7; Section IV, the works in natural science and in mathematics that are included in Volumes 8 and 9; and Section V, the philosophical writings that are included in Volume 10. Each of these sections will try to provide a general framework in which the writings indicated above can be read. Illustrative materials from Great Books of the Western World, as well as references to particular selections in Gateway to the Great Books, will be utilized to bring readers face to face with the ideas and themes appropriate to each kind of writing, and to fill them in on the basic background in each field. In addition, reference will be made from time to time to the Syntopicon, the index to the great ideas, which comprises Volumes 1 and 2 in Great Books of the Western World. The quotations

TH E WAYS (AN D WHYS) OF READI NG 19 from the Syntopicon are drawn from the introductions which open its chapters, 102 in all, one on each of the great ideas.2 A word should be said about the style of the references that will appear in parentheses in the pages to follow. Where the reference is to a passage in Great Books of the Western World, it is indicated by the letters GBWW, followed by the number of the volume in that set. Where references are made to authors or works included in this set, they will be accompanied simply by a parenthetical citation of the number of the appropriate volume in Gateway to the Great Books. And where reference is made to the Syntopicon, the reference will be to either Volume 1 or Volume 2 in GBWW. 2The reader who wishes to become acquainted with the 102 great ideas will find them listed on the rear endpapers of the volumes of the Syntopicon in Great Books of the Western World. The list of authors included in that set appears in the front endpapers of those volumes.

20 II Human Imagination What Is Imagination? Tell me a story,” says the child, and the storyteller begins. In aninstant, the world of common reality is left behind, and a new reality— more captivating, more intense, more real—catches up the listener on the wings of imagination. We never, as long as we live, stop saying, “Tell me a story.” Our hunger is never satisfied; the more we read, the more we want to read; and the richer the feast, the hungrier we grow. For the master of creative imagination evokes the creativity in all of us, makes us all shareholders in the treasure that literature brings to life. The story— in prose or poetry, in art or music—is the magic of everyone’s life. By comparison, the most staggering achievements of science and industry and statesmanship seem to some people bodiless and cold. Charles Darwin writes in The Descent of Man that, while reason is the greatest of all human faculties, “The Imagination is one of the highest prerogatives of man. By this faculty he unites former images and ideas . . . and thus creates brilliant and novel results. . . . The value of the products of our imagination depends . . . to a certain extent on our power of voluntarily combining them. As dogs, cats, horses, and probably all the higher animals, even birds have vivid dreams . . . we must admit that they possess some power of imagination. There must be something special, which causes dogs to howl in the night, and especially during moonlight, in that remarkable and melancholy manner called baying” (GBWW, Vol. 49). What is the imagination, which produces both the howling of a dog and Mozart’s Magic Flute, the dream of a cat and Dante’s Divine Comedy? Psychologists ancient and modern agree with Darwin that it is common to man and to some other animals, and that it is peculiarly linked with memory. In Chapter 56 of the Syntopicon on

H U MAN I MAG I NATI O N 21 MEMORY AND IMAGINATION (GBWW, Vol. 2), we learn that the two powers “depend upon sense perception or upon previous experience. Except for illusions of memory, we do not remember objects we have never perceived or events in our own life, such as emotions or desires, that we have not experienced. The imagination is not limited in the same way by prior experience, for we can imagine things we have never perceived and may never be able to.” How is this possible, when our imagination depends upon sense perception or upon previous experience? We do not know, except that we have both the involuntary instinct (as in dreams) and the voluntary power of combining. “Even when imagination outruns perception,” the Syntopicon continues, “it draws upon experience for the materials it uses in its constructions. It is possible to imagine a golden mountain or a purple cow, though no such object has ever presented itself to perception. But, as Hume suggests, the possibility of combining a familiar color and a familiar shape depends upon the availability of the separate images to be combined.” The Syntopicon quotes Hume—some of whose shorter works we read in Volumes 5 and 7 of this set—as saying, “When we think of a golden mountain, we only join two consistent ideas, gold and mountain, with which we were formerly acquainted. . . . All this creative power of the mind amounts to no more than the faculty of compounding, transposing, augmenting, or diminishing the materials afforded us by the senses and experience.” Congenitally colorblind persons who lived entirely in a world of grays would not be able to imagine a golden mountain or a purple cow, though they might be able to imagine other things as unreal as these. The object imagined, then, need not be located in the past like the object remembered, though the former depends upon the memory of the objects combined to produce it. But the imagined object need not have any definite location in time and space. It need have no actual existence. It may be a mere possibility, unlike the kind of object which cannot be known without being known to exist; it is a figment or construction. Having seen horses, we do not imagine a horse; we remember it. Having seen both horses and birds, we cannot remember a winged horse, but we can all imagine one. Memory preserves those things which are no longer present or no longer exist. Imagination evokes those things which have never existed, and, maybe, never will.

Gateway to the Great Books22 “. . . in which he dwells delighted.” Consider for a moment what memory and imagination mean to our human experience and our civilization. Without them, says the Syntopicon, “man would live in a confined and narrow present, lacking past and future, restricted to what happens to be actual out of the almost infinite possibilities of being.” But what imagination means to the life of each of us is perhaps best stated by a master of the art. In The Lantern-Bearers (Vol. 7), Robert Louis Stevenson asserts that, “Justice is not done to the versatility and the unplumbed childishness of man’s imagination. . . . His life from without may seem but a rude mound of mud; there will be some golden chamber at the heart of it, in which he dwells delighted. . . .” To the poet Shelley the imagination is the key to all goodness: “The great secret of morals is love; or a going out of our own nature, and an identification of ourselves with the beautiful which exists in thought, action, or person, not our own. A man, to be greatly good, must imagine intensely and comprehensively: he must put himself in the place of another and of many others; the pains and pleasures of his species must become his own. The great instrument of moral good is the imagination . . . We want the creative faculty to imagine that which we know; we want the generous impulse to act that which we imagine; we want the poetry of life . . .” (A Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5). Let us recall the shipwrecked sailor in Stephen Crane’s The Open Boat (Vol. 3). Doomed, as he thought, in a tiny lifeboat which could not make land, he suddenly remembered a poem of his childhood that began, “A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers,” and only now, for the first time, understood it; for the first time he felt sorry for that soldier now that he himself “lay dying.” His own mortal experience brought that soldier before him. What Shelley insists upon is that all men, so few of whom have such an experience, use their imaginations to put themselves “in the place of another and of many others.” This is what poetry—the traditional term for what we call “fiction”—does for us. The poet’s imagination takes us into the heart of another, of a person, a place, an event, and in doing so moves and lifts us. Volumes 2, 3, and 4 of Gateway to the Great Books are a collection of masterpieces of the imagination, Volume 5 a collection of the great critical and imaginative essays which enlighten our appreciation and enjoyment of what we read.

H U MAN I MAG I NATI O N 23 We emphasize appreciation and enjoyment, in addition to understanding, because the test of an imaginative work is its beauty. The French expression for such works, both stories and essays, is belles-lettres; literally untranslatable, it would have to be rendered something like “beautiful knowledge.” But the test of knowledge is truth, not beauty; does this mean that poetry is false? And—if it is— how can it possibly serve us? We say that a person has “let his imagination run away with him” when we don’t believe him. What then, if fiction or poetry be untrue, can it profit us? The apparent contradiction has never been more clearly resolved than in Aristotle’s little treatise On Poetics (GBWW, Vol. 8). “The poet’s function,” he says, “is to describe, not the thing that has happened, but a kind of thing that might happen, i.e., what is possible. . . . The distinction between historian and poet is not in the one writing prose and the other verse—you might put the work of Herodotus into verse, and it would still be a species of history; it consists really in this, that the one describes the thing that has been, and the other a kind of thing that might be. Hence poetry is something more philosophic and of graver import than history, since its statements are of the nature rather of universals, whereas those of history are singulars. By a universal statement I mean one as to what such or such a kind of man will probably or necessarily say or do—which is the aim of poetry, though it affixes proper names to the characters; by a singular statement, one as to what, say, Alcibiades did or had done to him” (ibid.). “. . . a kind of thing that might happen”—this is poetry, fiction, the work of the imagination. Not the actual here and now, or yesterday, or in 1776, nor this man, John Smith of 1332 State Street, Philadelphia; but the possible, today, tomorrow, yesterday, here or anywhere, as it might happen to such and such a kind of person. And insofar as we see ourselves as such a kind of person, and those we know as this or that kind, we are moved emotionally, to sympathy, to pity, forgiveness, love, noble deeds and impulses (and, conversely, to fear and hate and cruelty and ignoble deeds and impulses). But what moves us—through its beauty—is the universal truth of the tale; in it we recognize ourselves or others. It is the possible, and the possible cannot be false. Thomas De Quincey calls imaginative works “the literature of power” as opposed to the literature of knowledge. The function of the latter is to teach us, of the former to move us. In his Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power (Vol. 5), he asks, “What do you

Gateway to the Great Books24 learn from Paradise Lost? Nothing at all. What do you learn from a cookery-book? Something new.” What we owe the immortal author of the first, he goes on, is power—the materialization of our own latent capacity to move and be moved. “Were it not that human sensibilities are ventilated and continually called out into exercise by the great phenomena . . . of literature . . . it is certain that, like any animal power or muscular energy falling into disuse, all such sensibilities would gradually droop and dwindle. It is in relation to these great moral capacities of man that the literature of power, as contradistinguished from that of knowledge, lives and has its field of action.” He points out that the Psalmist asks the Lord to give him not understanding, but an “understanding heart.” After attending a theater for the first time as a child, Charles Lamb tells us that he “knew nothing, understood nothing, discriminated nothing. I felt all, loved all, wondered all—Was nourished, I could not tell how” (My First Play, Vol. 5). What had happened to him?—The play had brought his heart into contact with those peculiar sources of joy which, in the cultivation of the intellect alone, tend, according to psychologist William James, to dry up and leave us “stone-blind . . . to life’s more elementary . . . goods” (On a Certain Blindness in Human Beings, Vol. 7). Literature, says Stevenson in The Lantern-Bearers, moves us with “something like the emotions of life . . . Not only love, and the fields, and the bright face of danger but sacrifice and death and unmerited suffering humbly supported touch in us the vein of the poetic. We love to think of them, we long to try them, we are humbly hopeful that we may prove heroes also.” This is what the great works of the imagination do to us, and their effect is not without its dangers. The human heart is at once the best and worst of our blessings. So readily and so mysteriously moved, and in turn moving us to the great actions of life, its power may carry us to beatitude or perdition—depending on the goal to which it is moved and the means we choose to reach the goal. This is where criticism comes in. The critic or essayist is part “poet” and part “historian,” who comprehends the imagination and analyzes its output. The critic may deal (as De Quincey and others do in Vol. 5) with specific works or forms of literature, or (like Francis Bacon) with mankind itself. In either case, the writer examines and instructs or admonishes. Like preachers, critics want to direct and deepen our view of beauty; like scientists, they inquire into the truth of that view.

H U MAN I MAG I NATI O N 25 What Makes a Book Good? The great issue here is the existence or nonexistence of standards of criticism. Can we say of a literary work that it is “good” or “bad,” or “true or false,” as we can of a pot or a pan—or a mathematical formula? And, if we can, with what degree of certainty? Can we say that it is “good” or “bad” only here and now, for our time or for our place; or can we criticize it in universal terms of time and place? And, if we can, what are the standards by which we do it, and how are they arrived at? What—or who—is the ultimate authority? In Volume 5 of Gateway to the Great Books Sainte-Beuve looks at the history of criticism and reminds us that “the greatest names to be seen at the beginning of literatures are those which disturb and run counter to certain fixed ideas of what is beautiful and appropriate in poetry. For example, is Shakespeare a classic? Yes, now, for England and the world; but in the time of Pope he was not considered so. Pope and his friends were the only pre-eminent classics; directly after their death they seemed so forever. At the present time they are still classics, as they deserve to be, but they are only of the second order, and are forever subordinated and relegated to their rightful place by him who has again come to his own on the height of the horizon” (What Is a Classic?). We are all familiar with the famous aphorisms, the Latin de gustibus non est disputandum (“there is no disputing about tastes”) and the French chacun á son goût (“each to his taste”). But Hume (Of the Standard of Taste, Vol. 5) is willing to say that there is a way to measure literature: “. . . strong sense, united to delicate sentiment, improved by practice, perfected by comparison, and cleared of all prejudice, can alone entitle critics to this valuable character; and the joint verdict of such, wherever they are to be found, is the true standard of taste and beauty.” But the difficulties are at once apparent: How do we determine “strong sense”? How do we define “delicate sentiment”? How does a man, that creature of prejudice, clear himself of all prejudice? What if the verdict of such men is not joint at all, but divided? While different forms of literature are to be criticized differently—see Schopenhauer’s essays On Style and On Some Forms of Literature (Vol. 5)—we can generally accept the traditional view that the unity and completeness of an imaginative work—plus the harmony of its construction—serve as criteria under the experi-

Gateway to the Great Books26 enced examination of the critic. To these there may be added the usually paired criteria of universality and durability applicable to all works of the mind. But many critics take the position that artistic taste has no absolute validity but is relative to the conditions under which it is produced or “consumed.” Among them are the Marxists, who maintain that all values are determined by the economic form of the society. In his essay on Montaigne (Vol. 5), Sainte-Beuve says, “He was like Socrates, who did not consider himself a citizen of one city but of the world . . . he embraced the universality of countries and of ages . . . To get away from the present state of feeling, to restore lucidity and proportion to our judgments, let us read every evening a page of Montaigne.” [Montaigne’s collected essays may be found in Vol. 23 of Great Books of the Western World.] But the relativists would say that “there ain’t no such animal” as this man who embraces countries and ages, that Socrates reflected the master-slave civilization of ancient Athens and that Montaigne reflected the feudal society of sixteenth-century France. The issue is, in all probability, never to be resolved, for it involves the ultimate mystery of human nature we call the heart. And of all disputes that go on endlessly, that of taste in art is the most complicated, for art is man’s modification of nature. Were the materials to form themselves into a finished work, like a mountain or a sea, our view of their beauty might be more dispassionate. As it is, they bear the touch and the genius of human beings, and the problem of reflexivity, which besets ethics and politics, also bedevils art: we are judging ourselves and our own handiwork, and our passions, from which our view of the nonhuman may be free, are inextricably interwoven with our judgment. The purpose of our reading the great critics is, then, to become better critics ourselves; not merely to distinguish better between good and bad writing, and thus improve our own, but also to get the most pleasure out of everything we read, adding new dimensions to our own imagination. Criticism is the expressed response of the mind and the emotions of the critic to a work of art. It tends to awaken in us the sensibilities of which De Quincey speaks, to build Stevenson’s golden chamber at the heart of the “rude mound of mud” of our lives, to lead us to brighter enjoyment. Coleridge was a kind of walking essay to William Hazlitt, who rhapsodizes on the effect of their conversations on him: “I was at that time dumb, inarticulate, helpless, like a worm by the wayside, crushed, bleed-

H U MAN I MAG I NATI O N 27 ing, lifeless; but now . . . my ideas float on winged words” (My First Acquaintance with Poets, Vol. 5). On the Perilous Edge In the weird scenes at the close of Goethe’s masterpiece, Faust, in extreme old age, still bound by the sale of his soul to the Devil, envisions a people living behind a dike. On the other side of the dike the raging waters gnaw away at the wall and the community lives on the alert in constant danger and constant trial. And the savant who has now seen and done everything—with Mephistopheles for escort and councilor—sees “wisdom’s final fruit” in the spectacle of the constantly imperiled city: None is of freedom or of life deserving Unless he daily conquers it anew. (Faust, in GBWW, Vol. 45). So dream we all of conquering anew every day, the waters, the mountains, the heavens, far countries, and topless towers; would- be heroes all of us. But like Walter Mitty, we dream; and the waking life of most of us (of nearly all of us) is a round of routine which, as Bacon says, denies the satisfaction to the mind “in those points wherein the nature of things doth deny it, the world being in proportion inferior to the soul; by reason whereof there is, agreeable to the spirit of man, a more ample greatness, a more exact goodness, and a more absolute variety [in reading fiction] than can be found in the nature of things” (Advancement of Learning, in GBWW, Vol. 28). We are nearly all of us shut-ins of a sort, rich and poor and in between, city people and even country people, bound to the commonplace affairs of the workaday world. Adventurers we would be—for humans have an adventurous nature—but the four walls of home and work and family confine us all our lives. This is the common fate, and always was. The frontiersmen are the few, and the new frontiersmen confront the redskins from their rocking chairs. So we read about daredevils going to the bottom of the sea, the center of the earth, the limits of the universe. We are all ground-floor astronauts, air-conditioned explorers, nineteenth-hole champions, careening over the highways in our aerodynamic, turbo-charged automobiles, to arrive at work in time to make our meetings and generate our reports. We have our splendid adventures second hand; have them we must, “the world being in proportion inferior to the soul.” Of all the adventurers who ever were—or were ever imagined—

Gateway to the Great Books28 two of the world’s favorites are Homer’s Odysseus (Ulysses) and Daniel Defoe’s Robinson Crusoe. Homer and Defoe lived thousands of years apart, but The Odyssey and Robinson Crusoe continue to fascinate the old and the young in every language and in every land. They are the all- time best-selling adventure stories. The Odyssey (along with The Iliad) constitutes Volume 3 of Great Books of the Western World, and sections of Crusoe’s classic (in spite of everyone’s having read it as a child) have their place (in Vol. 2 of this set) in the living library of every young and old adult. Ulysses was a divinely descended king, Crusoe a common sailor boy. Their adventures were in some ways radically different: Ulysses had his men and his ships, and wherever he went his life was thronged with companions lovely or terrible, human or divine; Crusoe, shipwrecked on a desert island, lived without the sound of human voice or the sight of human face until his “man Friday” came and relieved the solitude in which he faced and mastered fate. But the two figures are essentially more alike than different: In Dante’s The Divine Comedy (GBWW, Vol. 19) the shade of Ulysses bemoans the fact that neither fondness for his small son nor piety for his father nor the love of his wife had been able to overcome “the longing that I had to gain experience of the world”—an ardor which delayed his return home from the Trojan War by ten years. And Crusoe, cursing his restlessness and curiosity as “the general plague of mankind,” says that half of men’s miseries flow from their “not being satisfied with the station wherein God and Nature hath placed them.” Ulysses deliberately sought out every challenge that man or god could muster, and Crusoe, all alone, tamed primeval nature to his civilized wants. Such heroes, increasing their stature to giant size, vicariously increase the size of those who read of their exploits. Men ourselves, we say, “mind you, a mere man did this.” Crusoe’s ingenious devices for carving a home for himself out of next to nothing have their echo in the do-it-yourself kit with which we moderns construct or repair an implement we could have bought cheaper at the store; we are all Crusoes and Ulysseses and our small adventures spring from their great ones. “Neither in the theoretic nor in the practical sphere,” says William James (The Principles of Psychology, in GBWW, Vol. 53), “do we care for, or go for help to, those who have no head for risks, or sense for living on the perilous edge. . . . We draw new life from the heroic example.”

H U MAN I MAG I NATI O N 29 The sedate philosopher John Stuart Mill tells us in the opening chapters of his Autobiography (Vol. 6) how the young Crusoe enriched his own sheltered childhood in which raw adventure had no place. So all of us, sheltered from the most primitive trials of life, are enriched by the youngster who would not and could not be kept to a way of life calculated for “peace and plenty . . . moderation, quietness,” the way in which “men went silently and smoothly through the world, and comfortably out of it. . . .” Like him, we all rebel against the smooth, silent way, but he, unlike us, was pushed on by fate, “born,” he says, “to be my own destroyer.” The Adventure of Comedy The heroism of all adventure stories is essentially comic: It is read for delight, and its pervasive character is the happy ending. It pleases us. But where the adventurer increases our own stature vicariously, the comic victim (even while we are laughing at him) reduces it. “This, too,” we say again, “is a mere man, like me,” and thus Marcus Aurelius, in The Meditations (GBWW, Vol. 11), finds comedy useful in “reminding men to beware of insolence.” It enables one (says Melville in Moby Dick, in GBWW, Vol. 48), to take “this whole universe for a vast practical joke . . . at nobody’s expense but his own.” But it has a much higher aim, according to Schiller (On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5); it enables man to liberate himself “from the influence of violent passions, and taking a calm and lucid survey of all that surrounds him, and also of his own being, and of seeing everywhere occurrence rather than fate or hazard, and ultimately rather smiling at the absurdities than shedding tears and feeling anger at sight of the wickedness of man.” This certainly sounds as if comedy has a purpose beyond mere entertainment, though perhaps we should consider these the effects of comedy rather than its aim. Still, comedy may be a way of communicating a deadly serious message. Works like Dickens’ The Pickwick Papers (Vol. 2) involve a sharp—if often hilarious—critique of the deplorable social situation in England in the nineteenth century. Sheridan’s The School for Scandal and Molière’s The Misanthrope and The Doctor in Spite of Himself (all three plays in Vol. 4) are “drawing-room comedies” in which we are seen saying and doing the opposite of what we feel. The comedy of manners (such as those

Gateway to the Great Books30 just mentioned) more often than not involves the traditionally and universally amusing, but none the less real, “battle of the sexes,” with the helpless woman winning. The characters in comedy do not bleed when they are pricked— their suffering is usually mere embarrassment—and the authors are making fun. But in making fun of human foibles they are nevertheless arguing. They seem to have no purpose, no message, no moral, but Sainte-Beuve, in his What Is a Classic? (Vol. 5) reminds us that Goethe said that Molière “is so great that he astonishes us afresh every time we read him.” The king of critics (as Sainte-Beuve calls him) would hardly have spoken thus of a writer whose power was limited to making us laugh. The fact is that when we reject every sermon, every plea, and every scientific proof, and cling obstinately to our prejudices, comedy may still reach us where the other forms of discourse fail. It is at this point that comedy gives rise to its most purposeful— and often savage—form in what is known as satire. The writer is a satirist, says Schiller (On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5), “when he takes as subject the distance at which things are from nature, and the contrast between reality and the ideal . . . he may place earnestness and passion, or jests and levity, according as he takes pleasure in the domain of the will or in that of the understanding. In the former case it is avenging and pathetic satire; in the second case it is sportive, humorous, and mirthful satire. . . . In satire the real as imperfection is opposed to the ideal, considered as the highest reality,” But of all satire we may certainly say that it has a purpose, and that its purpose, unlike that of pure comedy, is never nebulous or concealed. Voltaire’s little satire, Micromégas (Vol. 2), for instance, brings a gigantic visitor to earth from the stars to inspect and make mock of the tiny dwellers on our tiny planet. The device of size to take us down a peg is, of course, also used by Jonathan Swift in the greatest of all satires, Gulliver’s Travels (GBWW, Vol. 34). Nothing so well illustrates the saying that “there is no such thing as a children’s book” as does Gulliver’s Travels. Beloved of youngsters the world over, it says infinitely more to the world of adults than it does to children. But where Voltaire in his disillusionment is “sportive, humorous,” Swift, in his, is “avenging and pathetic.” We have only to turn to Volume 7 and read the great Irishman’s A Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of Ireland from Being a Burden to Their

H U MAN I MAG I NATI O N 31 Parents or Country to see how satire can be the agonized cry of a great heart against man’s inhumanity to man. Hazlitt (On Swift, Vol. 5) says of this “children’s” writer that “the ludicrous in Swift arises out of his keen sense of impropriety, his soreness and impatience of the least absurdity. He separates, with a severe and caustic air, truth from falsehood. . . . His better genius was his spleen. It was the biting acrimony of his temper that sharpened his other faculties.” Which is the more effective, gentle or sharp satire? In the latter category we find Shaw’s The Man of Destiny (Vol. 4), which, like Aristophanes’ renowned Lysistrata (GBWW, Vol. 4), is a theater piece mirthfully satirizing the most terrible of all human activities, war. Here we are seen deluding ourselves with grandiose aims and purposes, justifying our most monstrous behavior by the highest ideals. “When [an Englishman] wants a thing,” says Shaw, “he never tells himself that he wants it. He waits patiently until there comes into his mind, no one knows how, a burning conviction that it is his moral and religious duty to conquer those who possess the thing he wants.” In both Shaw and Aristophanes, the heart of the satire is the victory of “helpless” woman over both warriors and war. Satire may play an effective role in all works of social criticism, even in the construction of literary utopias—imaginary places where people live under ideal conditions. The most famous utopias (included in Great Books of the Western World) are Plato’s The Republic (Vol. 6), founded on virtue; St. Augustine’s The City of God (Vol. 16), founded on the Christian faith; and Francis Bacon’s New Atlantis (Vol. 28), founded on science. But Machiavelli, that hardest-boiled of all hard- boiled realists, is scornful of such depictions of “republics and principalities which in fact have never been known or seen, because how one lives is so far distant from how one ought to live, that he who neglects what is done for what ought to be done, sooner effects his ruin than his preservation” (The Prince, in GBWW, Vol. 21). This dim view of the confection of ideal commonwealths whose inhabitants exist under perfect conditions inspired one great utopian reformer to produce his plan in the form of a satire. This is Samuel Butler’s Erewhon (Vol. 2 of this set). Erewhon—an anagram of “nowhere”—is b orrowed directly from the word “utopia,” compounded from the Greek , not, and , a place. Butler uses the device of holding a mirror to our institutions so that we see them in reverse: In Erewhon, disease, misfortune, debt, and poverty are

Gateway to the Great Books32 treated as crimes against society and are punished. But what we call crimes are treated as diseases—as, indeed, many modern psychologists think they are—and are treated as such by men trained in “soul-craft” (we would say “psychiatry”) called “straighteners” (our “therapists”). The reason for satire is plain: Whoever is moved to criticize humans and their ways has to choose between a direct and a devious approach to the audience. The satirist chooses the latter, in the hope that, by entertaining them the while, he can circumvent the resistance they ordinarily display to criticism. He tries to “kid” them into facing their defects, where the moralist or preacher tries to compel them to face them. The literature of social protest tries to compel, to shock people into awareness. As belles-lettres it is rarely successful, but in Henrik Ibsen it reaches its artistic peak. In An Enemy of the People (Vol. 4) we see the protagonist on his feet fighting social evil. He is beaten but he is never stupid, as he is in satire, or ridiculous, as he is in comedy. The Society—and the Person In social protest we always see a minority pitted against what John Stuart Mill calls “the tyranny of the majority.” (See On Liberty, in GBWW, Vol. 40.) “The strongest man in the world,” says the heroic (some would say bullheaded) Dr. Stockmann in Ibsen’s classic, “is he who stands most alone,” echoing Walt Whitman’s words in his Preface to Leaves of Grass (Vol. 5): “take off your hat to nothing known or unknown, or to any man or number of men.” Standing alone against the commercial cupidity of the whole community— including the government and the press—Ibsen’s honest physician is destroyed, but in his destruction we read his triumph. He has triumphed over the materialism of a civilization which teaches a man, says Matthew Arnold in his Sweetness and Light (Vol. 5), “to value himself not on what he is . . . but on the number of the railroads he has constructed, or the bigness of the tabernacle he has built.” What a person is brings us to the heart of literature and to the heart of life: the individual. Social criticism focuses on society and, insofar as it treats of the Dr. Stockmanns, portrays the worth and nobility of human nature in, if not the many, then at least the few. It shows us people daring alone, the adventurers. So, too, comedy, though it mocks our professions and our professional humbug (the

H U MAN I MAG I NATI O N 33 law, in Dickens’ “A Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick,” from The Pickwick Papers, Vol. 2; medicine, in Molière’s The Doctor in Spite of Himself, Vol. 4; philosophy, in Voltaire’s Micromégas, Vol. 2). Deflating our pretenses and exposing our hypocrisies, comedy and light satire still say to us: “Man knows better, is better, than he says or does”; thus puffing us up (even as adventure does) while it lets the straw out of the stuffed shirt front. But the somber—and universal—adventure of every individual’s life is still to be dealt with. Kipling’s Mowgli’s Brothers (Vol. 2) and Balzac’s A Passion in the Desert (Vol. 3) show humans confronting the world of beasts and pitting themselves against the arid waste. Conrad’s Youth (Vol. 2), Crane’s The Open Boat (Vol. 3), Victor Hugo’s dreadful “The Battle with the Cannon” (Vol. 2) use the ferocious sea as the adversary. So, of course, does Homer’s Odyssey and many another classic, including Melville’s incomparable story of the hunt for the white whale (Moby Dick, in GBWW, Vol. 48). But the ferocity of the struggle with “nature in the raw” is child’s play compared with the struggle with man in the raw—the struggle of man with himself. “Consider,” says Melville (ibid.), “the subtleness of the sea; how its most dreaded creatures glide under water . . . treacherously hidden beneath the loveliest tints of azure. . . . Consider . . . the universal cannibalism of the sea; all whose creatures prey upon each other, carrying on eternal war since the world began. Consider all this; and then turn to this green, gentle, and most docile earth; consider them both, the sea and the land; and do you not find a strange analogy to something in yourself? For as this appalling ocean surrounds the verdant land, so in the soul of man there lies one insular Tahiti, full of peace and joy, but encompassed by all the horrors of the half-known life. God keep thee! Push not off from that isle, thou canst never return!” Many are the masterpieces of literature that deal with some soul “pushing off” from a peaceful Tahiti and then trying forever to return, but lacking the power to do so. Physically such “souls” may never have ventured from home, but pride and ambition and greed and lust cut them loose from their moorings and launch them upon the treacherous waters of violence or deceit or injustice. The two sides of our nature—the docile earth and the subtle sea—tear us to pieces. “If each . . . could but be housed in separate identities,” says Stevenson in his most famous short story, The Strange Case of Dr.

Gateway to the Great Books34 Jekyll and Mr. Hyde (Vol. 2), “life would be relieved of all that was unbearable.” Alas, both are housed in each of us. But our misfortune is also our freedom, for, as Hegel says, in The Philosophy of Right (GBWW, Vol. 43), “It is only man who is good, and he is good only because he can also be evil.” Only man is free. Or is he? Plato thought that no man “voluntarily does evil and dishonourable actions” (Protagoras, in GBWW, Vol. 6), and Aristotle insisted that “every wicked man is ignorant of what he ought to do and what he ought to abstain from, and it is by reason of error of this kind that men become unjust . . .” (Nicomachean Ethics, in GBWW, Vol. 8); and so the great debate over good and evil begins. In the masterpieces of the imagination we see the struggle within ourselves imperishably illustrated. In Volumes 2 and 3 of this set, Poe’s The Tell-Tale Heart, George Eliot’s The Lifted Veil, Hawthorne’s Rappaccini’s Daughter take us into the awful mystery of ourselves; and stories of a less somber character, like Mark Twain’s The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, portray human nature as a poor thing and human beings as ignoble. In Tolstoy’s The Death of Ivan Ilyitch (Vol. 3), human suffering consists of self-deception; as soon as one realizes (too late to repair it) that one’s life was lived wrong, salvation begins. So, too, old Maurya, in Synge’s Riders to the Sea (Vol. 4), when her last son is lost beneath the waves, is strengthened by the realization that life can do no more to her. Henry James discovers this insight in children who suffer in an atmosphere of adult exploitation (The Pupil, Vol. 3). But the dawn of true consciousness is less often the theme of the great storytellers than is the bewilderment that overtakes people when they see things go wrong. Bunin’s The Gentleman from San Francisco (Vol. 3) can only mutter, “This is dreadful.” The characters in Chekhov’s The Cherry Orchard (Vol. 4)—an invariable hit when it is revived on the modern stage— refuse to look at their desperation and go to the end of the road in an attitude of complete unreality. But Akaky in Gogol’s wonderful story of The Overcoat (Vol. 2) has accepted loneliness, insignificance, and poverty, and the incident that brightens his wretched existence just before he is crushed is enough to sustain him to the end. More often we see suffering—suffering locked within the heart of an individual—as the consequence of one’s being trapped by social bonds that one might have burst, as in the haunting account of Frank Ashurst in Galsworthy’s The Apple-Tree (Vol. 3), in

H U MAN I MAG I NATI O N 35 Sir Walter Scott’s The Two Drovers (Vol. 2), and in Isak Dinesen’s Sorrow-Acre (Vol. 3). Opposing “necessity” and the persistent theme of fate among the ancients is the doctrine of moral freedom under the servitude of God, notably illustrated by Tolstoy’s What Men Live By and The Three Hermits (both in Vol. 3). In the former strange story the angel sent to live with the shoemaker has come to earth to learn the truth about humans. He learns that they live by their love for each other, and not by caring for themselves. This is likewise the motive of the French master Flaubert, in whose Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller (Vol. 3) a man who has lived a life of violence and accidentally kills his parents becomes a beggar in penitence and achieves salvation by absolute charity. The power of faith reaches its heights here, as it does in Tolstoy’s hermits, who simply cannot learn the outward forms of prayer the mighty bishop tries to teach them. The ultimate human adventure is tragedy, and so is the ultimate achievement in storytelling. Each of the greatest tragedies of literature weaves a web of action around a man or woman who plays the role of the tragic hero; a role so universal in its appeal that the spectator is filled, as Aristotle says, with pity and fear (On Poetics, in GBWW, Vol. 8); pity for the character which, without being really wicked, suffers the worst of punishments, fear lest what befalls an Oedipus or a Macbeth, mighty kings, might all the more easily befall ourselves. Why do we read of such macabre matters? Why do we enjoy reading of them—enjoy them more than we enjoy light comedy or dazzling adventure? Aristotle says in his famous analysis (ibid.) that the spectacle serves as a catharsis, evoking and purging us of our most dreadful emotions. The passions of comedy are small, of tragedy great; and thus the relief we obtain from comedy is less than that which we find in tragedy. “It is difficult,” says Shelley, “to define pleasure in its highest sense; the definition involving a number of apparent paradoxes. . . . Sorrow, terror, anguish, despair itself are often the chosen expressions of an approximation to the highest good. Our sympathy in tragic fiction depends on this principle; tragedy delights by affording a shadow of that pleasure which exists in pain” (A Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5). In Gateway to the Great Books we encounter tragedy in many of the stories in Volumes 2 and 3, in Scott’s The Two Drovers, in Dinesen’s Sorrow-Acre, above all in Herman Melville’s Billy Budd. Is

Gateway to the Great Books36 young Billy wrongly condemned to die? Was he actually innocent? His commander, who judged him and sent him to his death, never knew; nor do we, though there is no mystery (in the ordinary sense) about the events that lead to the climax. Is Billy the tragic hero, or is Captain Vere? Whose plight is the worse? Who suffers the more? Which of the two is wrong, or right? We may read Billy Budd many times and still ask ourselves these questions; this is the nature of tragedy. Instead of saying that truth is stranger than fiction, we may say, after reading these masterpieces, that fiction is as strange as truth, and that the best fiction is closer to truth than the commonplace events we encounter every day of our lives. Closer to truth, so to say, than truth itself, for it speaks to us of the worlds within us that the white light of day rarely or never illuminates. Everything that can happen—for good or ill—is buried within us and directs our dreams, our desires, our ambitions, our choices with its unseen hand. The masters of imagination, entertaining us the while, bring us always nearer to the possession of the “understanding heart” which the Psalmist besought of God.

37 III Human Society Neither a Beast nor a God Humans have always lived in society; we are social animals.True, there have been occasional hermits or “solitaries,” whether by their own intent or, like Robinson Crusoe, accidentally, but they have come out of the society to which people generally belong. Being by nature a member of a community, the individual does not, and normally cannot, set up personal standards of thought or conduct without reference to others. Human history is the history of individuals whose lives mold, and are molded by, the community. Nor is it a mere relationship, like that of a citizen and the government, or even that of a husband and wife, a relationship of independent entities which may be broken leaving each of them intact. It is integral, and the view of the Greeks that one who lives outside society is not human, but “a beast or a god,” is a basic assumption of many political theorists. For them, living in society is indispensable to living humanly. Individual morality and politics (in the highest sense of the word) are inseparable, for the moral person is, among other things, just, and justice is the bond of people in communities. History, then, is the account of that unique society compounded of sameness (in that humans, like the bees, are invariably social) and differences (in that humans form a variety of societies, public and private, and in constantly changing forms). Gateway to the Great Books includes the shorter works of some of the greatest historians of the ages, Great Books of the Western World the long masterpieces beginning with Herodotus, “the father of history,” who tells us that he has written his account of the Persian War “in the hope of thereby preserving from decay the remembrance of what men have done . . .” (The History, in GBWW, Vol. 5). Is this all that history can do? No, says Hume, in his Of the

Gateway to the Great Books38 Study of History (Vol. 7); it also “amuses the fancy . . . improves the understanding . . . strengthens virtue.” But isn’t it also the key to the future? Here is where historians— and we with them—get into deep water. If only people would, like the bees, do tomorrow what they did yesterday, history would be an infallible guide and solve our problems for us. But will people do tomorrow what they did yesterday? The second great ancient historian, Thucydides, seemed to think so; at the opening of his marvelous account of the long war between Athens and Sparta— which ended in the ruin of both—he says he will be content if his book be judged useful “by those inquirers who desire an exact knowledge of the past as an aid to the interpretation of the future, which in the course of human things must resemble if it does not reflect it . . .” (The History of the Peloponnesian War, in GBWW, Vol. 5). “Peoples and governments never have learned anything from history, or acted on principles deduced from it,” says the great German philosopher of history, G. W. F. Hegel. “Each period is involved in such peculiar circumstances, exhibits a condition of things so strictly idiosyncratic, that its conduct must be regulated by considerations connected with itself, and itself alone” (The Philosophy of History, in GBWW, Vol. 43). But surely there are situations in our own day which, as Thucydides says, resemble the past? No doubt. But so, too, each individual confronts personal situations which at least resemble those the preceding generation confronted, and we know how hard it is for parents to persuade their children, on the basis of their own experience, to a course of action or a way of life. The fact seems to be that we are so variable a creature, so strong-willed and individualistic, that we must learn, if at all, from our own experience alone. The Road We Have Traveled If history cannot prophesy the future, it should at least be able to show us the road we have traveled thus far; we ought then to be able to say something, however unsurely, about the next stages in the journey. But even here we appear to be asking more of Clio— the mythological muse of history—than she can tell us. The ancients thought of history as a kind of cycle, or a repetitious round which people mistook for change. But when science and technology began to alleviate the hardships of human life, the idea of historical

H U MAN S O C I ETY 39 progress was born. Toward the close of the eighteenth century Gibbon concluded his study of ancient Rome with “the pleasing conclusion that every age of the world has increased and still increases the real wealth, the happiness, the knowledge, and perhaps the virtue, of the human race” (The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, in GBWW, Vol. 38). Far from having caught (or from having been caught by) this pleasing conclusion, Rousseau at the same time reached the unpleasing conclusion that “Man is born free; and everywhere he is in chains” (The Social Contract, in GBWW, Vol. 35). His “noble savage” was better, and better off, than modern man. A century later a leading exponent of the doctrine of progress answered Rousseau: “To believe,” said Darwin in 1859, “that man was aboriginally civilized and then suffered utter degradation in so many regions, is to take a pitiably low view of human nature. It is apparently a truer and more cheerful view that progress has been much more general than retrogression; that man has risen, though by slow and interrupted steps, from a lowly condition to the highest standard as yet attained by him in knowledge, morals and religion” (The Descent of Man, in GBWW, Vol. 49). These same three traditional readings of human history—the cyclical, the progressive, and the retrogressive—appear in many of the great writers in Gateway to the Great Books. Of the three views, the cyclical is, in modern times, least often taken. Tacitus (as might be expected of an ancient historian) sees no great change in things; he tells us how the Romans led the conquered Britons “step by step . . . to things which dispose to vice . . . All this in their ignorance they called civilization, when it was but a part of their servitude” (The Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6). But Guizot, in nineteenth- century France, is convinced that “all the great developments of the internal man have turned to the profit of society; all the great developments of the social state to the profit of individual man” (“Civilization,” Vol. 6). On the eve of the twentieth century Ruskin’s An Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age (Vol. 7) attacks this optimistic attitude (especially as it springs from scientific progress) with consummate eloquence—and scorn. Can we say, then, that there is a science of history? Again we have no agreement of historians or philosophers of history. Karl Marx of course believes that there is, or at least that there are discoverable laws that flow from history, that “the economic formation of society

Gateway to the Great Books40 is . . . a process of natural history . . .” (Capital, in GBWW, Vol. 50). Hume in An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding (G BWW, Vol. 33) agrees that history is a collection of “experiments, by which the politician or moral philosopher fixes the principles of his science,” but William James seems to reflect the overwhelming majority of thinkers on the subject when he calls it folly “to speak of the ‘laws of history’ as of something inevitable, which science has only to discover . . .” (Great Men and Their Environment, Vol. 7). One of the central difficulties is assessment of the role played by the “great man” in history. The extent to which humans have freedom to act in the drama of history has long been debated. Some say we are governed completely by necessity, while some, according to the Syntopicon, say the “motions of men are directed by laws which leave [men] free to work out a destiny which is determined by, rather than determines, the human spirit” (GBWW, Vol. 1). William James believes that the opportunity and the man are inseparable: “The relation of the visible environment to the great man is in the main exactly what it is to the ‘variation’ in the Darwinian philosophy. It chiefly adopts or rejects, preserves or destroys, in short selects him. And whenever it adopts and preserves the great man, it becomes modified by his influence in an entirely original and peculiar way. He acts as a ferment, and changes its constitution . . .” (Great Men and Their Environment, Vol. 7). But, says James, “Not every ‘man’ fits every ‘hour.’ . . . A given genius may come either too early or too late.” This, says Carlyle in The Hero as King (Vol. 6), was the fate of Cromwell; he was too great for his time. “One man, in the course of fifteen hundred years; and this was his welcome. He had adherents by the hundred or the ten; opponents by the million. Had England rallied all round him—why, then, England might have been a Christian land! As it is, vulpine knowingness sits yet at its hopeless problem, ‘Given a world of Knaves, to educe an Honesty from their united action’; how cumbrous a problem.” Thoreau’s A Plea for Captain John Brown (Vol. 6) compares the fanatical hero of the Abolition movement with Cromwell, his little band of men with Cromwell’s troops, and his speeches with Cromwell’s, closing his plea by quoting from Brown himself: “‘I think, my friends, you are guilty of a great wrong against God and humanity, and it would be perfectly right for anyone to interfere with you so far as to free those you willfully and wickedly hold. . . . I

H U MAN S O C I ETY 41 pity the poor in bondage that have none to help them; that is why I am here; not to gratify any personal animosity, revenge, or vindictive spirit. It is my sympathy with the oppressed and the wronged, that are as good as you, and as precious in the sight of God.’” John Brown may also have been too great for his time—but his time came soon after him. The influence of a great man may lie, after all, with his distant heirs far removed from the age in which he lives. So Walt Whitman, in his Death of Abraham Lincoln (Vol. 6), finds that “the final use of the greatest men of a nation is, after all, not with reference to their deeds in themselves, or their direct bearing on their times or lands. The final use of a heroic-eminent life—especially of a heroic-eminent death—is its indirect filtering into the nation and the race, and to give, often at many removes, but unerringly, age after age, color and fiber to the personalism of the youth and maturity of that age, and of mankind.” The Way to Write History The schoolboy definition of history as “what happened next” suggests that nothing in the world would be easier to write. But serious consideration of the problem reveals that just the opposite is the case. The first issue is the relationship of the historian in time and place to the events of which he writes. He may write of events in which he participated personally. (An example in Vol. 6 of this set is Xenophon’s famous “March to the Sea,” from The Persian Expedition. Here the author relates the movements of the Greek army, a portion of which he commanded, and his account has a real ring of authenticity.) Or he may write of his own times, using the evidence of eyewitnesses, if possible, or as near to eyewitnesses as he can obtain. (The letter of Pliny the Younger to Tacitus in Vol. 6, describing the eruption of Vesuvius, is a case in point. The letter tells of the death of his uncle, Pliny the Elder, at Pompei during the eruption, and ends by saying, “I have faithfully related to you what I was either an eye-witness of myself or received immediately after the accident happened, and before there was time to vary the truth.”) More often, the historian would find material through both means, i.e., personal experience, and through the experience of others who had left some record of it. The great early historians, Herodotus, Thucydides, and Tacitus, used this technique. The work

Gateway to the Great Books42 of Tacitus on Agricola in this set (Vol. 6) is an example. Julius Agricola was Tacitus’ father-in-law, and many of the details of his life were certainly known personally to Tacitus. It is obvious, however, that much of the material he presents on the Roman general’s life must also have come from other sources. Finally, the historian may write wholly of the past, and one view (the great historians of antiquity notwithstanding) is that the loss involved in doing so is more than compensated by the detachment of the scholar. True, the flesh-and-blood vividness of personal knowledge has to be sacrificed, but the history gains both impartiality and depth by the writer’s distance from the passions of the occasion, the time, and the place. Prescott’s “The Land of Montezuma” (Vol. 6) is such a history, relating the approach of Cortez and his men to the rich and lush heartland of Montezuma, the Aztec ruler. It is clear that Prescott has done immense research to bring us the picture of the reckless daring of the tiny band of Spaniards, as well as Montezuma’s fear and paralysis as the Spaniards approach his capital. History, says Lucian, “is nothing from beginning to end but a long narrative” (The Way to Write History, Vol. 6). But the story of history is restricted because it depends on facts, and the historian must balance the role of storyteller with the role of investigator. If it concentrates only on facts, the history is deadly dull. If it concentrates on story, the author may be tempted to sacrifice truth to entertainment. And there is no doubt in Lucian’s mind that the historian’s first duty is truth: “The historian’s one task is to tell the thing as it happened.” A contrary view is presented by the great historian Macaulay, in his essay on Machiavelli (Vol. 7). “The best portraits,” says Macaulay, “are perhaps those in which there is a slight mixture of caricature, and we are not certain that the best histories are not those in which a little of the exaggeration of fictitious narrative is judiciously employed. Something is lost in accuracy; but much is gained in effect. The fainter lines are neglected; but the great characteristic features are imprinted on the mind for ever.” J. B. Bury goes so far as to claim that Herodotus was more of an epic poet than a historian: “He had a wonderful flair for a good story . . . It is fortunate for literature that he was not too critical; if his criticism had been more penetrating and less naive, he could not have been a second Homer” (Herodotus, Vol. 6). “The classical histories,” says Macaulay, “may almost be called romances founded in

H U MAN S O C I ETY 43 fact.” If they were purely factual, they would have had few readers. And though popularity should be sacrificed to truth, we have only to reflect for a moment to realize that it is impossible to write a factual history that tells the truth. The facts themselves are in fact hearsay; do we know that “Columbus discovered America” when and where and how we say he did? Indeed we do not. We have it from participants, to be sure, but do we know (or do we simply assume) that they were telling the truth, or that any one of them actually saw the events he describes? Historical facts turn out to be slippery; in general they are based on a consensus of individual reports, any or all of which may be false. But the difficulty is greater than this. The truth of an event includes the feelings and the spirit of the participants and the onlookers; indeed, these nonfactual ingredients are often the most significant in any historical recital. Consider, for example, the Nazi invasion of Poland on September 1, 1939, which followed a number of clashes on the border between the two countries. Hitler was clearly the aggressor on that day and subsequently, but he and his followers claimed that the Poles had attacked them and that they were defending their country. The truth not only includes, but includes above all else, the real attitude and intentions of the German and Polish leaders and the sentiments of the two peoples, and such definitive things are so close to impossible to know (even if there are written records purporting to reveal them) that they probably will be argued by historians to the end of time. The Way to Read History The writer of history cannot present only the facts—or all the facts. He has to weigh and judge them. As the Syntopicon puts it (GBWW, Vol. 1), the historian “tries to make credible statements about particular past events. He makes an explicit effort to weigh the evidence himself or, as Herodotus so frequently does, to submit conflicting testimony to the reader’s own judgment. ‘Such is the account which the Persians give of these matters,’ he writes, ‘but the Phoenicians vary from the Persian statements’; . . . or ‘such is the truth of this matter; I have also heard another account which I do not at all believe’; or again, ‘thus far I have spoken of Egypt from my own observation, relating what I myself saw, the ideas that I formed, and the results of my own researches. What follows rests

Gateway to the Great Books44 on accounts given me by the Egyptians, which I shall now repeat, adding thereto some particulars which fell under my own notice.’” The historian is human (or shall we say “only human”). The judgment and interpretation of the relevance or irrelevance of the materials that are examined, of the weight to assign to Document A or Witness B, are the judgment and interpretation of a human, not a god. We should suppose that the historian ought to be dispassionate, a neutral. But whoever is dispassionate or neutral? Who lives today, or ever has, or ever will, who meets the requirements established for the historian by Lucian?—“. . . fearless, incorruptible, independent, a believer in frankness and veracity; one that will call a spade a spade, make no concession to likes and dislikes, nor spare any man for pity or respect or propriety; an impartial judge, kind to all, but too kind to none; a literary cosmopolite with neither suzerain nor king, never heeding what this or that man may think, but setting down the thing that befell” (The Way to Write History, Vol. 6). “Setting down the thing that befell”—as if history were an almanac, and an endless almanac at that! “Clearly,” the Syntopicon says, “the historians have different criteria of relevance in determining the selection and rejection of materials and different principles of interpretation in assigning the causes which explain what happened. These differences are reflected in the way each historian constructs from the facts a grand story, conceives the line of its plot and the characterization of its chief actors.” The writer of history is not an Olympian—or even a Martian. The historian is a citizen of one nation or another, conditioned, like all of us, by the values and habits of time and place. Above all, the historian is an individual human being, with human biases: a person dealing with the actions of humans, and whose view of historical actions can hardly help but reflect personal views of human action in general. The best he—and we—can hope for is his consciousness of his biases. If he is unconscious of them, he can do nothing to correct them; if he is conscious of them, he can submit his judgment and interpretation to colleagues who, if not unbiased, are at least blessed with biases contrary to his own. He may even warn the reader against himself, but perhaps that is too much to hope, of the historian or of anyone. Bury, finding in Herodotus a strong bias for the Athenians in the only history we have of the earth-shaking Persian War, says that “it was the work of a historian who cannot help being

H U MAN S O C I ETY 45 partial; it was not the work of a partisan who becomes a historian for the sake of his cause” (Herodotus, Vol. 6). Perhaps no historian can help being partial; in which case what Bury said of Herodotus may be said of every great historian and of all great history. Bertrand Russell long ago urged that a country’s history used for study in the schools should be written by citizens of other countries than that in which it is studied, and in an age like ours, deluged on all sides by government propaganda, the student of history, present or past, has got to read sharply, if not suspiciously. Consciousness of the forms which human bias takes—including one’s own—is imperative. The study of the great historians and philosophers of history in Gateway to the Great Books (and then in Great Books of the Western World) will serve the reader in the development of that consciousness so crucial to a realistic apprehension and a balanced appraisal of the modern world. The Domain of Liberty Much of human history—and certainly its most stirring episodes— involves the struggle for human liberty. But the meaning of liberty is itself controversial, and always has been; more so today, perhaps, than ever before, in spite of the fact that the greatest thinkers of every age have argued it. One point should be kept in mind: individual liberty and national independence must never be confused. Though the American Revolution was fought both for human liberty and national independence, it was not fought for the latter alone, as indeed, many colonial revolutions, or uprisings against the oppression of a foreign power, have been. An independent government may exist without human liberty. What individual liberty is, how much of it there should be, and why, are questions that raise a host of other questions. And the questions it raises take us always more deeply into all of the great ideas dealing with human beings. What is man? What is God? What is the will? The soul? What is fate? Necessity? Law? Justice? Equality? Slavery? Government? The State? Society? Happiness? Pursuing these ideas through the Great Books of the Western World—the passages dealing with them are all indexed under these terms in the Syntopicon—we are sooner or later drawn to almost every one of the other great ideas. And nowhere is the dispute among thinkers hotter than it is in connection with this one concept, liberty.

Gateway to the Great Books46 Most of the works in Volumes 6 and 7 of Gateway to the Great Books deal with liberty, as do many of the writings in the other volumes. The collection in Volume 6 entitled Great Documents is as good a starting point as any for the reader’s study. Proceeding from The English Bill of Rights (1689) to the Universal Declaration of Human Rights in 1948, we may trace the development of the theory of liberty in the past two and a half centuries since John Locke, the English philosopher whose essay Concerning Civil Government (GBWW, Vol. 33) promulgates the doctrine that each person has a natural right to “life, health, liberty [and] possessions”—a phrase which the authors of the American Declaration of Independence borrowed and amended to read, “life, liberty, and the pursuit of happiness” (Vol. 6). The liberties of Englishmen are held in the 1689 document to rest mainly with the sovereignty of Parliament against the king. Their statement, expanded through the successive documents in Volume 6, culminates in the United Nations’ statement, which in addition to the general rights asserted by the earlier documents, asserts the freedom of residence and movement, both within one’s own country and for the purpose of leaving one’s country or any other (and to return to one’s own country). It asserts the freedom of association— and the freedom not to associate. It maintains the universal right to work, free choice of employment, the right to form and join trade unions, “just and favorable conditions of work,” protection against unemployment, social security, education, and a “standard of living adequate for the health and well-being of [every individual] and of his family.” Can these be said to be rights in any strict sense? Who is to guarantee them? Government? And if not government, who? And how is, for example, a “standard of living adequate for health and well-being” to be guaranteed by government (or any other power) in the underdeveloped and overpopulated societies in which most people live on or over the brink of starvation? We may note that these “rights” are not only a spelling-out of the political liberties implied in the older documents but include economic conditions which the older documents do not touch; conditions which, in fact, cannot be guaranteed in the same way as political liberty. What the Universal Declaration of Human Rights reveals is the growing power in the world of the doctrine, so boisterously maintained by the Communists, but also embraced by the

H U MAN S O C I ETY 47 hungry of the new nations of Africa and Asia, that economic “rights” take precedence over the political. The Declaration must, indeed, be considered in the context of the divided world in which we live. Like its predecessors—including The Declaration of Independence—it may be taken to be a statement of an ideal rather than a statutory or contractual commitment. The Declaration was adopted by the United Nations by a 48–0 vote, with several abstentions, including those of the Communist countries in which such liberties as assembly, association, employment, and travel were rigidly restricted, and in which the Declaration’s “freedom of opinion and expression” ranged from curtailment to nonexistence. But it is clear in any case that the extension of the basic political liberties is only a sentiment in behalf of a vision of what might be, since most governments maintain the policy of refusing passports to certain of their citizens. Indeed, it cannot be gainsaid that no society now exists, or ever has, in which all the rights of the Declaration are fully protected. What does appear as we peruse the historic statements of liberty is the development of the modern idea that it includes self- government as one of its essentials. Beginning with the assertion in The English Bill of Rights that “the pretended power of suspending of laws, or the execution of laws, by regal authority, without consent of parliament, is illegal,” the doctrine of self-government reaches its full flower two and a half centuries later in the United Nations Declaration: “Everyone has the right to take part in the Government of his country, directly or through freely chosen representatives. . . . The will of the people shall be the basis of the authority of government; this shall be expressed in periodic and genuine elections which shall be by universal and equal suffrage.” How is the sovereignty of the people to be exercised? “By representative government,” wrote James Mill, in his Essay on Government a century and a half ago. “For though the people, who cannot exercise the powers of government themselves, must entrust them to some one individual or set of individuals, and such individuals will infallibly have the strongest motives to make bad use of them, it is possible that checks may be found sufficient to prevent them.” But only a generation later his still more renowned son, John Stuart Mill, is worrying whether checks, not on the government but on the people themselves, may be found: “In a representative body actually deliberating, the minority must of course be overruled; and

Gateway to the Great Books48 in an equal democracy . . . the majority of the people, through their representatives, will outvote and prevail over the minority and their representatives. But does it follow that the minority should have no representatives at all?” (Representative Government, in GBWW, Vol. 40.) This concern over the “tyranny of the majority” is also found in Tocqueville’s study of the United States in the early nineteenth century. He concludes that “the advantage of democracy [over aristocracy] is not, as has sometimes been asserted, that it protects the interests of the whole community, but simply that it protects those of the majority” (“Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6). Thus we encounter in America, prior to the Civil War, the doctrine of “the concurrent majority” in John C. Calhoun’s essay by that name (Vol. 7). Calhoun, representing the minority view of the slaveholders, argues that the majority-elected government may be kept from oppressing the minority by “dividing and distributing the powers of government,” and giving “to each division or interest, through its appropriate organ, either a concurrent voice in making and executing the laws or a veto on their execution.” An adaptation of this “state’s rights” principle may be seen in the Charter of the United Nations, in which the veto by any one permanent member of the Security Council blocks action. But then it is plain that society does not have one indivisible government but is a federation of sovereign powers. This scheme may indeed protect minorities against the majority in a democratic society, but will it hold the society together? Here is the central issue in the United Nations, as it was in the League of Nations. Here was the issue of the American Civil War. The twin dangers— of too much power or too little, of dictatorship or anarchy—are argued throughout the Federalist papers written by Hamilton, Madison, and Jay in support of the new American Constitution after the War of Independence (GBWW, Vol. 40). With absolute majority rule, what guarantee of rights can there ever be? Representative democracy established the rights of all against a tyrannical government; how are the rights of the minority to be maintained against the majority? The minority may be 49.99+% of the electorate—in which event it is hard for the majority to oppress it—or it may be a very small percentage of numerically helpless dissenters. Or it may be a single individual, asserting the

H U MAN S O C I ETY 49 rights of the individual against society. This figure we see among the heroes and martyrs of history, beginning with Socrates and Christ. Their “rights” are crushed. But can we expect any form of social organization to allow one individual to hamstring its activities? This is the hard question to which Henry David Thoreau addresses himself in his powerful essay, Civil Disobedience (Vol. 6). Thoreau refused to pay his taxes because a portion of them supported the Mexican War and slavery in the United States. He was sent to prison and released when his friend Emerson (whose essay on Thoreau we read in Vol. 6), paid his taxes for him. Thoreau, seeing the one individual at the mercy of the majority, asks if democracy as we know it is “the last improvement possible in government? Is it not possible to take a step further toward recognizing and organizing the rights of man? There will never be a really free and enlightened state until the state comes to recognize the individual as a higher and independent power.” But can there be such a State? Would it still be a State? Would it not instantly dissolve into anarchy? Washington in his Farewell Address (Vol. 6) says that until the Constitution is changed it is “sacredly obligatory upon all.” Abraham Lincoln, taking the oath as President in the dreadful year 1860, asserts in his First Inaugural Address (Vol. 6) that “it will be much safer for all, both in official and private stations, to conform to, and abide by, all those acts which stand unrepealed, than to violate any of them. . . .” But John Brown claimed that he had a more sacred obligation than the Constitution and the laws, an obligation to free the slaves; and as Thoreau defends the abolitionist (A Plea for Captain John Brown, Vol. 6), so Carlyle, in The Hero as King (Vol. 6), defends the words of Oliver Cromwell against the scandal they produced: “If the King should meet me in battle, I would kill the King.” Land of the Free—and Equal The state so consecrated to human liberty that it long stood on the brink of anarchy—and the one and only state ever so established— was the United States of America. Elsewhere the rights of man have been won piecemeal: the tree of liberty was watered by the blood of millions, from the time of the slave revolutions like that of Spartacus in Rome (Plutarch, The Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans, in GBWW, Vol. 13). In America, it was planted by the men who

Gateway to the Great Books50 founded the new nation and nurtured by the waves of the oppressed of Europe who swarmed to her open shores. The United States is the case history of a human community hewn out of the wilderness to serve as a laboratory for utopianism then and thereafter. The American experiment staggered mankind and triggered all the revolutions that followed it. And it is a relatively new revolution and a new history, its beginnings voluminously recorded by capable writers and keen observers; a historian’s paradise. A geographical paradise, too: a “vast tract of continent,” as George Washington said, “comprehending all the various soils and climates of the world, and abounding with all the necessaries and conveniences of life.” An Eden, with an indigenous population so small and scattered as to be routed by what, in military terms, were merely skirmishes. An empty paradise, in effect, into which poured all the national and racial stocks of the earth in a process of self-selection. Only those came who wanted to start life anew, build “new heavens and a new earth,” in the words of Christopher Columbus taken from the Book of Isaiah. “Here,” says the American chronicler Crèvecoeur, “individuals of all nations are melted into a new race of men, whose labours and posterity will one day cause great changes in the world” (“The Making of Americans,” Vol. 6). None of the nations of the earth had been (or has up to now been) populated by peoples so diverse in background as America; nor of any other nation, past or present, may it be said that its people were there because they wanted to be there and went there. In Gateway to the Great Books, we read the works of many Americans and commentators on America. Among the former are its greatest men of letters, Hawthorne, Emerson, Thoreau, Mark Twain, Melville, Poe, Whitman, James; among the latter such European geniuses as Tocqueville, whose “Observations on American Life and Government” (Vol. 6) should be studied by every American interested to know his own country as only a stranger can study a country and know it. The America that fascinated Tocqueville in the 1830’s fascinates us today, with its people and their manners and attitudes brilliantly delineated, their accomplishments, their shortcomings, and their perils both seen and unseen in their utopian form of government and the spirit of their society. (“Observations on American Life and Government” is an excerpt of Democracy in America, which appears in full as Vol. 44 of Great Books of the Western World.)

H U MAN S O C I ETY 51 Urged by a variety of motives—high and low—the dissatisfied came pouring into the new land. Crèvecoeur, who saw them come, found that in the new land: “Everything has tended to regenerate them; new laws, a new mode of living, a new social system; here they are become men: in Europe they were as so many useless plants, wanting vegetative mold, and refreshing showers; they withered, and were mowed down by want, hunger, and war; but now by the power of transplantation, like all other plants they have taken root and flourished!” (“The Making of Americans,” Vol. 6.) There was room for everybody, and room for everybody to go on and up. The “new world,” it was called; it was the old dream at long last come true, and it uncoiled the springs in the hearts of men “within half an hour after landing at New York,” as Henry Adams said (“The United States in 1800,” Vol. 6). They were the “laboring poor” of Europe, who were suddenly numbered as free and independent citizens, for the first time in history the equal of every other man. There was all the work they wanted, and no unemployment, and they had only to work and save for a few years to become independent farmers and tradesmen. They came to think of themselves as individuals, and to be moved by individual self-interest to get ahead and always further ahead. Under their suddenly animated hands the economy sprang to life, and the sanctity of private property, the right to acquire it in free competition, to improve it, to dispose of it as one wished, grew at the center of the American faith, a doctrine shared enthusiastically by statesmen as different from one another as Thomas Jefferson and Herbert Hoover. The rich open country afforded men good land cheap and even free—men whose ancestors had from time immemorial slaved on other men’s land in Europe. Freedom of speech and press and assembly and worship created a society in which, as Tocqueville noted, everyone talked politics all the time and everyone joined associations of every kind. And freedom to exercise one’s talents and ambitions released in these new men and women a materialism pent up for generations; people whose parents had starved to death dreamed of seeing their children rich. And that, too, came to pass. But at the heart of the phenomenon lay something other than the love of freedom, said Tocqueville: “I think that democratic communities have a natural taste for freedom; left to themselves, they will seek it, cherish it, and view any privation of it with regret. But for equality, their passion is ardent, insatiable, incessant, invincible:

Gateway to the Great Books52 they call for equality in freedom; and if they cannot obtain that, they still call for equality in slavery. They will endure poverty, servitude, barbarism, but they will not endure aristocracy” (“Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 7). The passion for equality was fortified by the country’s freedom from the militarism which had formed the base of all European caste and class. The puny thirteen American colonies had repulsed the British Empire; behind the moat of the two oceans they could not be successfully attacked. Maintaining that a militia would be enough to defend the new country, Washington in his Farewell Address (Vol. 6) warned against “those overgrown military establishments which under any form of government are inauspicious to liberty, and which are to be regarded as particularly hostile to republican liberty”; an echo of the assertion in the great Virginia Declaration of Rights (Vol. 6) that “standing armies, in time of peace, should be avoided as dangerous to liberty.” Believing, according to Adams, that “in the long run interest, not violence, would rule the world, and that the United States must depend for safety and success on the interests they could create, [the early Americans] were tempted to look upon war and preparations for war as the worst of blunders; for they were sure that every dollar capitalized in industry was a means of overthrowing their enemies more effective than a thousand dollars spent on frigates or standing armies. The success of the American system was, from this point of view, a question of economy. If they could relieve themselves from debts, taxes, armies, and government interference with industry, they must succeed in outstripping Europe in economy of production; and Americans were even then partly aware that if their machine were not so weakened by these economies as to break down in the working, it must of necessity break down every rival” (“The United States in 1800,” Vol. 6). We may say now that these men were optimists; but they had reason to be. Everything—except history—was propitious to their experiment. Above all, they believed in it—and not just the eminent leaders but the millions and more millions who came to participate in it. They believed that it was, in Jefferson’s words, “the world’s best hope” (First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6); in Washington’s, “a most conspicuous theater, which seems to be peculiarly designated by Providence for the display of human greatness and felicity” (Circular Letter to the Governors of All the States on Disbanding the

H U MAN S O C I ETY 53 Army, Vol. 6). And Adams observed that European travelers in this early America “noticed that everywhere, in the White House at Washington and in log cabins beyond the Alleghenies, except for a few Federalists, every American, from Jefferson and Gallatin down to the poorest squatter, seemed to nourish an idea that he was doing what he could to overthrow the tyranny which the past had fastened on the human mind.” The Shadow of War In the 1830’s Alexis de Tocqueville wrote the following remarkable words: “There are, at the present time, two great nations in the world which seem to tend towards the same end, although they started from different points: I allude to the Russians and the Americans. . . . Their starting point is different and their courses are not the same; yet each of them seems to be marked out by the will of Heaven to sway the destinies of half the glob e” (“Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6). What Tocqueville did not predict—nor did anyone else—was that the hostility of Russia and America would one day threaten the extinction of the human race. There was little his imagination failed to grasp, but its grasp did not reach to the scientific development in which weapons, which in his time measured their carrying power in yards, would carry their deadly message for thousands of miles across oceans and continents. On the contrary, he appeared to see a prospect for world peace in the fact that “the nations seem to be advancing to unity. Our means of intellectual intercourse unite the most remote parts of the earth; and it is impossible for men to remain strangers to each other, or to be ignorant of the events which are taking place in any corner of the globe.” If this was true in 1835, how much truer it is today! Never has the world been so close to unification as now; never before could unification be imagined on an other than utopian basis. But this so nearly unified world continues to be divided by aggression and wars. “Certain attitudes toward war between states seem to recur in every century,” according to the Syntopicon’s introduction to the subject of WAR AND PEACE (GBWW, Vol. 2). “In the face of the ever-present fact of war, men deplore its folly or find some benefit to compensate for its devastation. But throughout most of the tradition, those who see only suffering, no less than those who celebrate the

Gateway to the Great Books54 martial spirit, seem to accept the necessity of war. Good or bad, or a mixture of the glorious and the horrible, war seems, to most of those who write about it, an inevitable thing—as ineradicable as disease and death for the living body, as inescapable as tragedy. Only in recent times has the inevitability of war been questioned, and the possibility of lasting peace proposed.” If war between individuals can be controlled by the establishment of the civil commonwealth, why cannot the war of state against state be placed under a world organization of law and order? Must we say that the nation-state is the ultimate development of human society? Is an association beyond it impossible to man? Or is it a stage in social progress, requiring decades or centuries before men will subordinate national interests and customs to those of the world unified by technology? In Gateway to the Great Books there are several selections which bear on this question. Clausewitz, in his What Is War? (Vol. 7), represents the viewpoint of war’s inevitability. To him, it is a natural part of the political intercourse between nations; for no moral force exists apart from the conception of a state and law. “We have to think of war not as an independent thing, but as a political instru- ment. . . . We see,” he says, “that war is not merely a political act but a real political instrument, a continuation of political intercourse, a carrying out of the same by other means. . . . for the political design is the object, while war is the means, and the means can never be thought of apart from the object.” He sees human intelligence concerned only with the question of when to use war, not with its elimination. Malthus is an unhappier apologist for war. In his essay, “The Principle of Population,” in Volume 7, he expounds his theory that “the power of population is indefinitely greater than the power in the earth to produce subsistence for man,” and that war is one of the means by which this imbalance is corrected. Even so, he noted that “the commission of war is vice, and the effect of it misery,” but adds: “To prevent the recurrence of misery, is, alas! beyond the power of man.” But there have always been men—more today than ever before— who have refused to concede that the misery of war is beyond man’s power to prevent. And the commonwealth within which peace prevails has long since suggested to poets and philosophers (and more recently to many “practical” men) that a commonwealth of the

H U MAN S O C I ETY 55 whole earth is the solution. The argument for world government as a means to world peace was first made by Dante himself in the thirteenth century in his “On World Government,” in Volume 7 of this set. “Wherever there can be contention,” he wrote, “there judgment should exist. . . . Between any two governments, neither of which is in any way subordinate to the other, contention can arise. . . . Therefore there should be judication between them. And since neither can know the affairs of the other, not being subordinated (for among equals there is no authority), there must be a third and wider power which can rule both within its own jurisdiction. “This third power is either the world government or it is not. If it is, we have reached our conclusion; if it is not, it must in turn have its equal outside its jurisdiction, and then it will need a third party as judge, and so ad infinitum, which is impossible. So we must arrive at a first and supreme judge for whom all contentions are judiciable either directly or indirectly. . . . Therefore, world government is necessary for the world.” He realized that the obstacles were formidable: “O race of men, how many storms and misfortunes must thou endure, and how many shipwrecks, because thou, beast of many heads, strugglest in many directions! Thou art sick at heart and sick in mind, both theoretical and practical! No irrefutable arguments appeal to thy theoretical reason, and no amount of experience to thy practical intelligence, and even thine emotions are not moved by the sweet, divine persuasiveness which sounds to thee from the trumpet of the Holy Spirit.” Centuries later Immanuel Kant, in his Perpetual Peace (Vol. 7), found that nature’s “mechanical march evidently announces the grand aim of producing among men, against their intention, harmony from the very bosom of their discords.” Here he refers to the fact that man’s warlike nature has forced him to submit to coercive laws in his own self-interest, and not as a matter of morality, resulting in societies and states. But perpetual peace requires “moral politicians,” he says, reminding us of the immortal dictum of Socrates that only when kings are philosophers and philosophers kings will society know surcease. As to the form the future world organization would take, Kant thinks that “the public right ought to be founded upon a federation of free states.” The ideal would be “a society of nations” which would “submit themselves to coercive laws,” but as this is a practical impossibility, “there can only be substituted, to the positive idea of

Gateway to the Great Books56 an universal republic (if all is not to be lost) the negative supplement of a permanent alliance . . .”; in short, a federation, not a union. The Issue of Our Time And this—federation or union—is the heart of the issue. Rousseau, in his A Lasting Peace through the Federation of Europe (Vol. 7), in the eighteenth century proposed a European federation (since, he said, Europe was already homogenous because of geography, trade and commerce, habit and custom, and religion), but it was actually a federal union, with a legislative body with power to pass binding laws, a coercive force to enforce laws and prohibitions, and the power to prevent the withdrawal of any member. But he concluded gloomily that such an organization could never be established except by a revolution. “That being so,” he says, “which of us would dare to say whether the League of Europe is a thing more to be desired or feared? It would perhaps do more harm in a moment than it would guard against for ages.” If the problem of conflicting sovereignties is to be resolved, all conflicts which arise between states must be submitted to a higher power for arbitration, and, as in civil society, this power must have the force to ensure that its decisions are obeyed. An indissoluble community requires a government superior to any or all of its components. This was the issue of the American Civil War, and before that, the heart of the greatest of the great debates in American history—whether to adopt the Constitution in place of the unworkable Articles of Confederation. It has continued to be a fundamental issue in our time in the efforts to create the European Community. In the Charter of the United Nations (Vol. 6), the preamble states that the people are “determined to save succeeding generations from the scourge of war. . . .” But Chapter I, Article 2, Paragraph 1, asserts that “the Organization is based on the principle of the sovereign equality of all its Members”—just as were the ill-fated American Articles of Confederation. And after establishing the all- powerful Security Council, Paragraph 3 of Article 27 provides, in effect, that any permanent member may prevent action by the Security Council by casting a negative vote—the power of veto. And the veto is coupled with a still broader assertion of national sovereignty, which provides that “nothing contained in the present Charter shall authorize the United Nations to intervene in matters

H U MAN S O C I ETY 57 which are essentially within the domestic jurisdiction of any state or shall require the Members to submit such matters to settlement under the present Charter” (Chap. I, Art. 2, Par. 7). But these are the same guarantees of sovereignty which, as “state’s rights,” had wrecked the confederation of American states after the Revolution. Similar guarantees of national sovereignty undid the League of Nations. Germany quit the League in 1935, just as South Carolina had seceded from the American Union in 1860—both of them on the principle of sovereignty which forbade interference in their domestic affairs or organizational action without their consent. Can we say that a community from which a member resigns when it is charged with an offense is a true community? Like the League, and like every federation of sovereigns before it, the United Nations was destined to great achievements in matters on which the sovereign members could agree. The United Nations could, and did, prevent or end “small wars,” and, in so doing, earned the gratitude of all mankind. The war it could not prevent was the big one on the verge of which the world teetered after 1948. None of the heads of the three great powers (Britain, the U.S.A., and the U.S.S.R., who agreed to the veto at Yalta in 1945) nor, in all probability, their peoples, were able to move beyond Hegel’s conception of the nation-state as “the absolute power on earth” (The Philosophy of Right, in GBWW, Vol. 43). Like war, chattel slavery was for thousands of years regarded as part of the order of the universe. An Aristotle thought it was natural (Politics, in GBWW, Vol. 8); a John Locke accepted it as a concomitant of conquest (Concerning Civil Government, in GBWW, Vol. 33); a Thomas Jefferson wrote The Declaration of Independence (Vol. 6) without denouncing it. But it was destroyed at last, partly, to be sure, by machinery that was cheaper even than slaves, but partly by the slowly evolving moral and religious sentiment of mankind. The combination of man’s self-interest and morality may do away with war—before war does away with man.

58 IV Science and Mathematics Product and Process Every day, every hour, every minute, we feel the acceleratingimpact of science on our lives. Science has a hand in nearly everything which affects us—our food, clothing, shelter, job, amusements, and cultural pursuits. The very air we breathe has been changed by the combustion engine and by nuclear fission. Our whole environment is constantly being altered. Should we not, then, try to understand science? Why? Why should we not be content, rather, simply to read the instructions on the outside of the package, and forget about the ideas, the techniques, and the processes that went into the making of the product? Are not the findings, after all, the only things that need concern us? We read a poem written two thousand years ago because it still has something to tell us. But science is progressive and rapidly outdated; why read about ideas that have been superseded by two thousand years, or even two years? And if science is a mystery story, why not just read the last page? But the last page has not yet been written, the mystery is still not solved. Perhaps it will never be; and if it is, it may turn out that the clues were in the first chapter. And in all the chapters, from the first to the latest, there is the story of one of the most important human activities: the struggle to comprehend the universe. Humans are question-asking animals, and our first questions are about the world we see around us, the “world of science.” We wonder, and our wonder will not let us rest. We feel that we are growing when we are inquiring and investigating and only when we are inquiring and investigating. We want to know—and always to push beyond the known. We are a “natural-born” frontier people. Let us discover a new world, and we push on to a new planet, a new universe. To ask is to be excited. To be excited is to live.

S C I E N C E AN D MATH E MATI C S 59 True, this curiosity is not evenly distributed among all persons. All of us possess it in insatiable quantity at birth. Unfortunately, most of us lose it, or stifle it, as we grow older. A few men and women retain it, and are activated by it, all their lives. They become the persistently, professionally curious whose curiosity changes the world. This is the fraternity to which the great scientists—like the great poets and philosophers—belong. The rest of us need not be content with only the end product of science. We may all know the why and the how. True, the terminology of science and technology is “another language,” but it is a language which we can comprehend, above all when we tackle the original masterpieces—the exposition of the fundamental discoveries upon which the highly technical applications are all based. And our comprehension is facilitated by the fact that many such works are expounding theories which, once strange and spectacular, have long since become familiar to us. It is in the presentation of a new concept that scientists are most precise, clear, and simple. They are not, at this point, speaking to specialists and technicians—this will come later—and they are not talking shop with colleagues. At the great turning points in the advance of science there is no inside group waiting to receive the word in language that only it can understand. Here the scientists come closest to speaking to everyone; it is here that they are most eloquent and lucid. A scientific theory is like a shelter against chaos. It is designed to hold in some sort of order the known facts of the universe. New facts require a little juggling of the old, the addition of a new wing or second story; some sections may have to be torn down and rebuilt. Increasingly inadequate, the structure stands, representing a world view, a comfort to us who cannot rest until we perceive that nature has a pattern. Then, one day, there is a crisis. The foundation begins to crumble. A hypothesis that has been brought in to “save the appearances” has become an embarrassment, and is now a skeleton in the closet. But most pressing of all, new knowledge has been acquired that does not fit in anywhere. It is time for a move. Rescuing materials that will be useful in building anew, the scientist starts all over again to build a shelter; never entirely from scratch, for something is always salvaged, often a great deal. It is in the salvaged material that the continuity of science exists. There are

Gateway to the Great Books60 no complete breaks in the story. There are dormant periods, blind alleys, revolutions, and crises, but no breaks. Sometimes the new structure can be built only because the framework had been created decades, or even centuries, before by mathematicians, who, pursuing mathematical knowledge for its own sake, foresaw no possible applications of their formulas to science. The idea of conics was for more than 1,500 years a purely intellectual exercise. Euclid, Archimedes, and Apollonius investigated the mathematical properties of these curves, which were not then known in nature. Then, early in the seventeenth century, when Kepler discovered that planets move in elliptical orbits, the language in which to express his theory was found in conics. The story of science could be told in a series of such crises. “There are no eternal theories in science,” Albert Einstein and Leopold Infeld write in “The Rise and Decline of Classical Physics” (Vol. 8). “It always happens that some of the facts predicted by a theory are disproved by experiment. Every theory has its period of gradual development and triumph, after which it may experience a rapid decline. . . . Nearly every great advance in science arises from a crisis in the old theory, through an endeavor to find a way out of the difficulties created. We must examine old ideas, old theories, although they belong to the past, for this is the only way to understand the importance of the new ones and the extent of their validity.” The establishment and development in the seventeenth century of classical physics, to which Einstein and Infeld refer, represented just such a crisis—a break with the past. It began, as so often happens, with a revolution, the “Copernican revolution.” The new structure was imposing, and the architects were giants. Copernicus, Galileo, Kepler, and Newton outlined the material framework for the world in which we lived from the second half of the seventeenth century to the end of the nineteenth. The Greek astronomer Ptolemy was a great synthesizer of knowl- edge, and his system of the world also represented a break with the past. Before Ptolemy, astronomy consisted largely of a mass of more or less unconnected observations of the movements of the heavenly bodies. Ptolemy’s theory imposed a unity upon these masses of data and was adequate to the phenomena then observable. The shift from Ptolemy, who believed that the earth was the center of the universe, to Copernicus, who offered the simpler hypothesis that the sun was at the center, and therefore that the earth was only a small part

S C I E N C E AN D MATH E MATI C S 61 of a vast cosmic arrangement, was a shock to the imagination. The trust that one placed in one’s senses seemed to be undermined; things were not as they appeared to be. Still worse, the belief that the universe had been created especially for mankind seemed to be shaken by the new theory. Sigmund Freud characterizes this change as the first “great outrage” upon humanity’s “naïve self-love . . . when it realized that our earth was not the centre of the universe, but only a tiny speck in a world-system of a magnitude hardly conceivable; this is associated in our minds with the name of Copernicus . . .” (A General Introduction to Psycho-Analysis, in GBWW, Vol. 54). This “outrage” expressed itself in the form of fear and resistance. Sometimes it grew so strong and so bitter that it burst forth as outright persecution. Galileo was a brilliant scientist, whose monumental contributions in the fields of astronomy and physics had kept the Copernican revolution surging ever forward. His investigations were so disturbing that he was finally accused of defying religious authority. Tommaso Companella, in his seventeenth-century defense of Galileo, described the objections to Galileo in the following manner: “Holy Scripture counsels us to ‘seek nothing higher, nor attempt to know more than it is necessary to know’; that we ‘leap not over the bounds which the fathers set’; and that ‘the diligent searcher of majesty is overcome by vain-glory.’ Galileo disregards this counsel, subjects the heavens to his invention, and constructs the whole fabric of the world according to his pleasure. Cato rightly taught us to ‘leave secret things to God, and to permit Heaven to inquire concerning them; for he who is mortal should concern himself with mortal things’” (“Arguments for and against Galileo,” Vol. 8). But to Galileo, subjecting the heavens to the “spyglass” he had invented, it seemed “a matter of no small importance to have ended the dispute about the milky way by making its nature manifest to the very senses as well as to the intellect” (The Starry Messenger, Vol. 8). “To Venture Forth” The human spirit is resilient, and gains courage from knowledge. Though Pascal says that he is frightened when he sees himself “engulfed in the infinite immensity of spaces of which I am ignorant and which know me not,” he also writes: “It is not from space that I must seek my dignity, but from the government of my thought. I

Gateway to the Great Books62 shall have no more if I possess worlds. By space the universe encom- passes and swallows me up like an atom; by thought I comprehend the world” (Pensées, in GBWW, Vol. 30). Mankind slowly learned to accept the continuing questioning of science, even when it produced profoundly disquieting and bewildering results. Having once and for all been thrown out of the center of the uni- verse, humankind lost a throne, but achieved mobility. The modern conception of our status, located somewhere between the edge of infinity in one direction and the nucleus of the atom in the other, is presented pictorially in Cosmic View, by Kees Boeke (Vol. 8). The ability to measure ourselves in space is scientific and modern; the insight that bridges distances and dispels the terror of immensity is philosophical and ancient. Centuries ago, Marcus Aurelius wrote: “Whether the universe is a concourse of atoms, or nature is a system, let this first be established, that I am a part of the whole which is governed by nature . . .” (Meditations, in GBWW, Vol. 11). Modern scientists claim the “right to venture forth in the world of ideas [as well as] to extend . . . horizons in the physical universe” (Beyond the Googol, Vol. 9). This right has been won. And the world of ideas includes such once “dangerous” concepts as the idea of the end of the world. But nowadays, even such a prediction of ultimate natural catastrophe arouses no condemnation and produces no martyrs of science. It is neither delivered, nor received, with terror or anguish. Arthur Eddington, for instance, sees the universe as inexorably running down, with no possibility of its being wound up again to repeat the cycle. So be it, he says. He would rather “that the universe should accomplish some great scheme of evolution and, having achieved whatever may be achieved, lapse back into chaotic changelessness, than that its purpose should be banalised by continual repetition. I am an Evolutionist, not a Multiplicationist” (The Running-Down of the Universe, Vol. 8). Modern scientific theory is flexible, making no claim to being the last word, or even, except provisionally, the right word. Modern science says: This is the way we describe things—today. Copernicus upset a world that had been saying: This is the way things are— forever. The world that he upset was the world that had been ruled by the thought of Aristotle for over 1,500 years. Since the beginning of the seventeenth century, almost every scientific advance has had to begin with a refutation of some Aris- totelian doctrine. Why is Aristotle now regarded as having long

S C I E N C E AN D MATH E MATI C S 63 imposed a barrier to scientific progress? Is it because, as the Syntopicon suggests, he relied too strongly on his senses? “Just as Ptolemy’s astronomy conforms to what we see as we look at the heavens, so Aristotle’s physics represents a too simple conformity with everyday sense-experience. We observe fire rising and stones falling. Mix earth, air, and water in a closed container, and air bubbles will rise to the top, while the particles of earth will sink to the bottom. To cover a multitude of similar observations, Aristotle develops the theory of the natural motions and places of the four terrestrial elements—earth, air, fire, and water. Since bodies move naturally only to attain their proper places, the great body which is the earth, already at the bottom of all things, need not move at all. Being in its proper place, it is by nature stationary” (GBWW, Vol. 1). The fate that Aristotle suffered at the hands of his successors, who took his tentative conclusions as a rounded body of complete knowledge rather than as incentives to inquiry and further discovery, indicates that science is the making of knowledge, and not knowledge as such. And in the making of knowledge, modern science uses two tools that Aristotle did not use—experiment and mathematics. Experiment and Observation While the scientific method employs both experiment and obser- vation, it is clear that not all branches of science are experimental. As the Syntopicon points out: “It is not always possible for the scientist to perform experiments, as, for example, in astronomy, where the phenomena can be methodically observed and exactly recorded, but cannot be manipulated or controlled. Among the great books of natural science, the biological writings of Hippocrates, Aristotle, Galen, and Darwin, the astronomical works of Ptolemy, Copernicus, Kepler, and Newton, and the clinical studies of Freud are examples of scientific works which are more or less empirical, but not experimental” (GBWW, Vol. 1). Due, however, to the great strides made by physics and chemistry from the middle of the nineteenth century, experiment has gained so much prestige that it has been hailed by some as the only method of obtaining knowledge of any kind, scientific or otherwise. Furthermore, it has been said that questions which cannot be answered by scientific methods are not only unanswerable: they should not even be asked.

Gateway to the Great Books64 In The Great Conversation (a book that accompanies Great Books of the Western World), we find a discussion of the question whether the scientific method can be extended beyond the natural sciences. “Consider, for example, statements about God’s existence or the immortality of the soul. These are answers to questions that cannot be answered—one way or the other—by the experimental method. If that is the only method by which probable and verifiable knowledge is attainable, we are debarred from having knowledge about God’s existence or the immortality of the soul. If modern man, accepting the view that he can claim to know only what can be demonstrated by experiment or verified by empirical research, still wishes to believe in these things, he must acknowledge that he does so by religious faith or by the exercise of his will to believe; and he must be prepared to be regarded in certain quarters as hopelessly superstitious.” The author of The Great Conversation goes on to consider what is meant by the scientific method. “If all that is meant is that a scientist is honest and careful and precise, and that he weighs all the evidence with discrimination before he pronounces judgment, then we can agree that the scientific method is the only method of reaching and testing the truth in any field.” But, he adds, these methods have been used by historians, philosophers, and theologians since the beginning of time, and it is misleading to name after science a method used in so many fields. Does the scientific method mean the observing and collecting of facts? Though facts are indispensable, they are not sufficient. “To solve a problem it is necessary to think. It is necessary to think even to decide what facts to collect. Even the experimental scientist cannot avoid being a liberal artist, and the best of them, as the great books show, are men of imagination and of theory as well as patient observers of particular facts.” Whatever is meant by scientific method, the writer continues, “the issue remains whether the method associated with experimental science, as that has developed in modern times, is the only method of seeking the truth about what really exists or about what men and societies should do.” Questions raised by the experimental method are not confined to its use outside of natural science. There is also a feeling that even within certain branches of science, it is no longer sufficient unto itself. This is the attitude of Max Planck, one of the giants of

S C I E N C E AN D MATH E MATI C S 65 contemporary physics. (He is the “father” of quantum mechanics.) “Scientists,” says Planck, “have learned that the starting point of their investigations does not lie solely in the perceptions of the senses, and that science cannot exist without some small portion of metaphysics. Modern physics impresses us particularly with the truth of the old doctrine which teaches that there are realities existing apart from our sense perceptions, and that there are problems and conflicts where these realities are of greater value for us than the richest treasures of the world of experience” (The Universe in the Light of Modern Physics, reprinted in The Great Ideas Today 1962). All through the great books, we find examples of the authors’ efforts to seek the truth about the world and themselves, and the boundary line between the scientific and the nonscientific method is not always clear. Consider, for instance, the collecting of facts. Since facts are beyond number, and since a scientist must make a judgment about which facts to consider, on what basis is this judgment made? It is the aesthetic sensibility that chooses, says Henri Poincaré. “It may be surprising to see emotional sensibility invoked à propos of mathematical demonstrations which, it would seem, can interest only the intellect. This would be to forget the feeling of mathematical beauty, of the harmony of numbers and forms, of geometric elegance. This is a true aesthetic feeling that all real mathematicians know, and surely it belongs to emotional sensibility” (Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9). Considering the application of mathematics to science, Campbell touches on the same point when he says that “relations which appeal to the sense of the mathematician by their neatness and simplicity are found to be important in the external world of experiment. . . . The expert mathematician has a sense about symbols, as symbols; he looks at a page covered with what, to anyone else, are unintelligible scrawls of ink, and he immediately realizes whether the argument expressed by them is such as is likely to satisfy his sense of form; whether the argument will be ‘neat’ and the results ‘pretty.’” The author believes that “the only way to understand what Einstein did is to look at the symbols in which his theory must ultimately be expressed and to realize that it was reasons of symbolic form, and such reasons alone, which led him to arrange the symbols in the way he did and in no other” (Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science, Vol. 9).

Gateway to the Great Books66 The same application of mathematical order and neatness to data resulted in the discovery of another important piece of scientific knowledge—the periodic law of the chemical elements (“The Genesis of a Law of Nature,” Vol. 8). Are scientists, then, for all their devotion to cold, hard facts, essentially artists? Where do the patterns lie from which they construct their models of reality? In nature, or in their minds? Whose Footprint? The interplay between the mind and the universe—which governs which?—may be subject for the philosophers, but scientists also have their philosophical moods. Tobias Dantzig (selections from his work are in Vol. 9 of this set) asks, “Has the universe an existence per se or does it exist only in the mind of man?” Giving a tentative answer to the age-old dilemma, he continues: “To the man of science, the acceptance of the one hypothesis or the other is not at all a question of ‘to be or not to be’; for from the standpoint of logic either hypothesis is tenable, and from the standpoint of experience neither is demonstrable. So the choice will forever remain a matter of expediency and convenience. The man of science will act as if this world were an absolute whole controlled by laws independent of his own thoughts or acts; but whenever he discovers a law of striking simplicity or one of sweeping universality or one which points to a perfect harmony in the cosmos, he will be wise to wonder what role his mind has played in the discovery, and whether the beautiful image he sees in the pool of eternity reveals the nature of this eternity, or is but a reflection of his own mind” (Number, The Language of Science, 4th ed., Macmillan, 1962). Arthur Eddington said, in Space, Time, and Gravitation (Cambridge University Press, 1987 edition), “We have found a strange foot- print on the shores of the unknown. We have devised profound theories, one after another, to account for its origin. At last, we have succeeded in reconstructing the creature that made the foot- print, And Lo! it is our own.” The question of the actual existence of the objects of scientific inquiry is nowhere more puzzling than in the field of mathematics. Do mathematical truths reside in the external world, or are they man- made inventions? The answers reflect the dual role that mathemat-

S C I E N C E AN D MATH E MATI C S 67 ics plays—appearing sometimes as servant of science, sometimes as queen in her own right. To Bertrand Russell, mathematics is independent of mankind, and her true role is that of queen. “To those who inquire as to the purpose of mathematics, the usual answer will be that it facilitates the making of machines, the travelling from place to place, and the victory over foreign nations, whether in war or commerce.” Russell regards these ends of doubtful value, and adds: “As respects those pursuits which contribute only remotely, by providing the mecha- nism of life, it is well to be reminded that not the mere fact of living is to be desired, but the art of living in the contemplation of great things. . . . Mathematics, rightly viewed, possesses not only truth, but supreme beauty—a beauty cold and austere, like that of sculpture, without appeal to any part of our weaker nature, without the gorgeous trappings of painting or music, yet sublimely pure, and capable of a stern perfection such as only the greatest art can show. . . . The contemplation of what is non-human, the discovery that our minds are capable of dealing with material not created by them, above all, the realization that beauty belongs to the outer world as to the inner are the chief means of overcoming the terrible sense of impotence, of weakness, of exile amid hostile powers . . .” (The Study of Mathematics, Vol. 9). But it is about mathematics as the servant of science that Lancelot Hogben writes when he says that mathematics is a language, a size language, developed in response to man’s material needs: “Plato’s exaltation of mathematics as an august and mysterious ritual had its roots in dark superstitions which troubled, and fanciful puerilities which entranced, people who were living through the childhood of civilization, when even the cleverest people could not clearly distinguish the difference between saying that 13 is a ‘prime’ number and saying that 13 is an unlucky number. His influence on education has spread a veil of mystery over mathematics and helped to preserve the queer freemasonry of the Pythagorean brotherhoods, whose members were put to death for revealing mathematical secrets now printed in school-books” (Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization, Vol. 9). It was from the “queer freemasonry” of the Pythagorean teachers that Plato derived the so-called “Platonic bodies,” the five regular polyhedra that have equal sides and equal angles. The teachings of the Pythagoreans, who held that numbers have a real and separate

Gateway to the Great Books68 existence, may seem fanciful now, but fancies have often been of value to science. It was from consideration of the “Platonic bodies” that Kepler developed the first unitary scheme of the universe (Epitome of Copernican Astronomy, in GBWW, Vol. 15). In addition to having a reality apart from man, mathematics had, for Plato, “something in them which is necessary and cannot be set aside,” something of “divine necessity.” Plato believed that the necessities of knowledge which are divine and not human are “those of which he who has no use nor any knowledge at all cannot be a God, or demi-god, or hero to mankind, or able to take any serious thought or charge of them. And very unlike a divine man would he be, who is unable to count one, two, three, or to distinguish odd and even numbers . . .” (Laws, in GBWW, Vol. 6). An opposing view about the nature of mathematics is presented by Henri Poincaré. With the development of non-Euclidean geometries, it seems reasonable to ask which geometry is true. But the question is without meaning, says Poincaré. “Geometry is not true, it is advantageous.” But does not one geometry come closest to being true? “One geometry cannot be more true than another; it can only be more convenient” (Space, Vol. 9). But this seems to say that the mathematician builds a habitation for himself rather than (as the Platonists believe) finds one eternally standing. Such questions may be unanswerable, but even unanswerable questions serve as beacons. We cannot, for instance, know the why of things, says Claude Bernard. Absolute knowledge of the very essence of phenomena will always remain beyond our reach. “When we know that friction and that chemical action produce electricity, we are still ignorant of the primary nature of electricity.” But, he continues, the search is not unfruitful. If a man of science carries experimental analysis far enough, he will see that though he is ignorant of the cause of the phenomenon, he will become its master. “The instrument at work is unknown, but [he] can use it” (Experimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies, Vol. 8). Mankind’s reluctance to believe that the universe may be without plan is centuries old. “Either it is a well-arranged universe or a chaos huddled together,” admitted Marcus Aurelius. “But,” he asked, “can a certain order subsist in thee, and disorder in the All?” (Meditations, in GBWW, Vol. 11). The persistence of the question indicates that, although much of modern science is directed toward

S C I E N C E AN D MATH E MATI C S 69 controlling our environment, scientific inquiry is based, at least partly, on our desire to know what we ourselves are. Evicted Again Displacement from the center of the universe was only the first disruption of our concept of our place in the scheme of nature. According to Freud, “The second was when biological research robbed man of his peculiar privilege of having been specially created, and relegated him to a descent from the animal world, implying an ineradicable animal nature to him: this transvaluation has been accomplished in our own time upon the instigation of Charles Darwin . . .” (A General Introduction to Psycho-Analysis, in GBWW, Vol. 54). No scientific theory has ever extended so rapidly into every field of human endeavor as the theory of evolution. The substance of the theory is expounded in Volume 49 of Great Books of the Western World; the story of the author is told in Darwin’s Autobiography in Volume 8 of Gateway to the Great Books. The influence of the theory continues to manifest itself in history, biology, sociology, medicine, geology, psychology, and other fields of study. The raging controversies aroused by Darwin’s theory of evolution in no way diminished scientific activity. In such fields as chemistry, anatomy, paleontology, and geology, the probing continued. The combined effect of all these areas of investigation was to present an ever-changing, sometimes radically-changing, picture, not only of the physical world, but of the very nature of life itself—and man’s attitudes changed with that picture and are still changing. It is claimed, for example, that the discovery of DNA requires an entirely new conception of life. The work of Friedrich Wöhler (On the Artificial Production of Urea, Vol. 8) has already weakened the arguments of the vitalists, who, dating from Aristotle, explained the nature of life as being due to a vital force peculiar to living organisms. Claude Bernard (Ex- perimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies, Vol. 8) developed the theory that chemical laws are valid for living organisms. Comparative anatomy, the beginnings of which are found in the works of Aristotle and Galen, was used by Thomas H. Huxley to bolster the theory of man’s kinship to the animals (On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, Vol. 8). And although

Gateway to the Great Books70 the mechanism of heredity was unknown in Darwin’s day, statistical methods had been devised and applied in such works on the subject as Francis Galton’s “The Classification of Human Ability,” from Hereditary Genius (Vol. 8). Charles Lyell, who deeply influenced Darwin’s whole thought and work, had suggested that natural forces still at work could account for the present structure of the earth. His glimpses into the past, revealed by the study of fossils, contributed to biological researches on which were based the concept of evolution (“Geological Evolu- tion,” Vol. 8). To Huxley, geology opened a book, whose authority could not be impeached. “There is a writing upon the wall of cliffs at Cromer, and whoso runs may read it,” he says (On a Piece of Chalk, Vol. 8). For Huxley the writings pointed toward a connection between the physical changes of the world and the changes in its living inhabitants. From the time of Galileo, many persons have held that the worth of a science or a philosophy could be estimated by the degree to which it could be presented under mathematical formulas. David Hume, the eighteenth-century philosopher, went so far as to say, at the end of An Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding: “If we take in our hand any volume; of divinity or school metaphysics, for instance; let us ask, Does it contain any abstract reasoning concerning quantity or number? No. Does it contain any experimental reasoning concerning matter of fact and existence? No. Commit it then to the flames: for it can contain nothing but sophistry and illusion” (GBWW, Vol. 33). Yet in the nineteenth century it was the nonmathematical geologists and biologists who framed most precisely the questions: What is man? What is his past and what is his future? If he is part of the animal world, does he differ from animals in having a soul? Does the doctrine of the survival of the fittest apply to human institutions? Does evolution necessarily mean progress? A large part of the essay on MAN in the Syntopicon is devoted to the questions that arise when man is considered in connection with the idea of evolution. The chapters on SOU L, EVOLUTION, PROG RE SS, and NATURE are relevant, too. The study of mankind is an ancient one and is the only study in which the knower and known are one. It may be that this unique relationship poses insoluble problems, and that the quest for knowledge will forever travel in a circle. But the Syntopicon says that

S C I E N C E AN D MATH E MATI C S 71 the “ultimate questions which man asks about himself are partly answered by the very fact of their being asked. The answer may be that man is the measure of all things; that he is sufficient unto himself or at least sufficient for the station he occupies and the part he plays in the structure of the universe. The answer may be that man is not a god overlooking the rest of nature, or even at home in the environment of time and space, but rather that he is a finite and dependent creature aware of his insufficiency, a lonely wanderer seeking something greater than himself and this whole world. Whatever answer is given, man’s asking what sort of thing he is, whence he comes, and whither he is destined symbolizes the two strains in human nature—man’s knowledge and his ignorance, man’s greatness and his misery” (GBWW, Vol. 2). The whole structure of science is now so vast that no one person can hope to comprehend it. The scientist tends to specialize more and more intensely within a field—and to flounder as helplessly as any layman outside it. But the original thinking that characterized the early “greats” of science is still to be found in our time. Such thinking—in contrast to the work of the specialist or technician— inevitably leads the scientist to the ultimate questions about the universe. At the center of these questions stands humankind. Who are we and what is the purpose of life? Once we ask these questions, we enter into the realm of philosophy.

72 V Philosophy Questions Without Answers? How ought we to live? Or is there an “ought”? Is there in fact agood (or right) way of life, and where are we to look for the knowledge of it? Is it demonstrable knowledge, like that of mathematics? Are we bound in reason to accept it as we are the findings of the scientists based on controlled experimentation and observation? If so, why don’t we all cleave to its truth as we do to the physicist’s or the engineer’s? If not, are we to conclude that the realm of living is only a matter of speculation, in which one person’s opinion is as good as another’s and knowledge does not exist at all? A true science (as we use the term today) does not tell us that we ought to do anything. Its business is to tell us what is, not what should be or should be done. Engineers do not tell us whether we ought to build a bridge. They say, “If you want to build a bridge, we can tell you how,” and if we say, “But should we build a bridge rather than a school or a school rather than a hospital?” they say, “That’s not for us to say. We’re only engineers.” So, too, the physicians. They may tell us to stop smoking if we want to live longer, but when we say we’d rather smoke than live longer, they shrug their shoulders and say, “That’s up to you. We’re only physicians.” Who is there who is not only an engineer, or a physician, or someone who can answer all the questions but the hard ones? Who can help us make moral choices and political decisions? If there is a science of living, there should be a scientist whose “field” is just that, who can tell us what life is and what the right way to live is. If there is an applied science (or art) of living, there should be, not just a Doctor of Medicine, but a Doctor of Life, who can tell us with doctoral authority not how to live longer but how to live well. If there is a science or art of human life, it would certainly be the queen

P H I LOS OP HY 73 of all the sciences and merit the concentration of every young (and old) man and woman. We sometimes speak of “a philosophy of life,” as if philosophy is that science. But is it in fact a science, or even an art derived from the conclusions of science? Where are its laboratories in which rigorous experimentation is carried on by highly trained specialists under rigidly controlled conditions? Where are its proofs, to which every reasonable person must yield? Where are its experts, whose judgments are made on certain and indisputable knowledge? Or is it a science in a different sense? Or is it something else entirely? These are the questions to which the selections in Volume 10 of Gateway to the Great Books lead us. Nor need we read very far before we discover that there are two disciplines which claim to have the knowledge—as surely as science has knowledge—of the way men ought to live: philosophy and theology. Neither need we read very far before we discover that not the least of the difficulties both of them have in maintaining their claims is their frequent and bitter opposition (in modern times) to each other. In his famous History of Western Philosophy, philosopher-mathematician Bertrand Russell (whom we read on mathematics in Vol. 9 of this set) tries to define the fields and their opposition and their problems thus: “Philosophy . . . is something intermediate between theology and science. Like theology, it consists of speculations on matters as to which definite knowledge has, so far, been unascertainable; but like science, it appeals to human reason rather than to authority, whether that of tradition or that of revelation. All definite knowledge—so I should contend—belongs to science; all dogma as to what surpasses definite knowledge belongs to theology. But between theology and science there is a No Man’s Land, exposed to attack from both sides; this No Man’s Land is philosophy. “Almost all the questions of most interest to speculative minds are such as science cannot answer, and the confident answers of theologians no longer seem so convincing as they did in former cen- turies. Is the world divided into mind and matter, and, if so, what is mind and what is matter? Is mind subject to matter, or is it possessed of independent powers? Has the universe any unity or purpose? Is it evolving towards some goal? Are there really laws of nature, or do we believe in them only because of our innate love of order? Is man what he seems to the astronomer, a tiny lump of impure carbon and water impotently crawling on a small and unimportant planet? Or is

Gateway to the Great Books74 he what he appears to Hamlet? Is he perhaps both at once? Is there a way of living that is noble and another that is base, or are all ways of living merely futile?” (A History of Western Philosophy, Simon and Schuster, 1972.) To such questions, as Russell says, no answers can be found in the laboratory. Where can they be found? Whose business is the answering of them? If they are unanswerable—unanswerable by science, theology, and philosophy—are we not in a fine fix indeed? What boots it to be able to answer the lesser questions of the physical and biological worlds if we cannot answer the greater? Immanuel Kant, at the opening of his famous The Critique of Pure Reason, maintains that we have no choice: the questions bedevil us, and we cannot dodge them. “Human reason,” he says, “is called upon to consider questions, which it cannot decline, as they are presented by its own nature, but which it cannot answer, as they transcend every faculty of the mind” (GBWW, Vol. 39). Thus, as the Syntopicon notes in the Introduction to Chapter 66: “Socrates speaks of philosophy as the love of wisdom, implying thereby its pursuit rather than its attainment. A man would not be called a scientist in a particular field—mathematics, let us say—unless he actually had some mathematical knowledge; but a man who is not actually wise can be called a philosopher by virtue of his effort to become wise” (GBWW, Vol. 2). What kind of learning is this that is a form of love? What is this pursuit of the unattainable? Thunderbolts of the Gods It is through the dialogues of Plato that we come to know the “father” of philosophy, the incomparable Socrates. Socrates, though he always denied that he had any knowledge, when he was on trial for his life warned the judges of Athens that they should not offer him acquittal on the condition that he cease to inquire and speculate. To such an offer, he says, he would have to reply, “Men of Athens, I honour and love you; but I shall obey God rather than you, and while I have life and strength I shall never cease from the practice and teaching of philosophy, exhorting any one whom I meet and saying to him after my manner: You, my friend,—a citizen of the great and mighty and wise city of Athens,—are you not ashamed of heaping up the greatest amount of money and honour and reputation, and caring so little about wisdom and truth and the greatest improvement

P H I LOS OP HY 75 of the soul, which you never regard or heed at all?” (Apology, in GBWW, Vol. 6). He seems to believe that philosophy is useful, nay, indispensable to life, and as he defends himself in court he makes one of the most celebrated assertions in history: “The unexamined life is not worth living.” Socrates speaks of “god” and the “soul,” but we must remember that he was a pagan who, at his trial, steadfastly denied that he disbelieved in the gods of the state. We must also remember that “soul” to the Greeks was a metaphysical, not a theological concept; it was simply the essence of a living thing, that which, when we are alive, makes us what we are. When it leaves a man, he is no longer a man but the mere shell of a man. The first great pagans did not separate philosophy from the mysticism of religion. But in the Roman philosopher Lucretius we have the lineal forerunner of the modern religious skeptic, agnostic, or atheist, who, like Russell, wants to save man from “fairy tales” by a philosophy which has no help from the scientist’s laboratory and has no certainty of its own. The materialism of Lucretius, says Santayana in his essay on him (Vol. 10), “carries with it no commandments and no advice. It merely describes the world . . .” but Lucretius himself believes that he provides a remedy for the deepest of human ills by “freeing the mind from the close bondage of religion.” The philosophy of Lucretius is known as Epicureanism because it followed the thinking of the Greek Epicurus. Lucretius saw (as the Syntopicon puts it) that men feared the thunderbolts of the gods, their intervention in the course of nature and human affairs, and the punishments of afterlife in the pagan religion. Before Epicurus taught the mortality of the soul and the atomic character of all things—including the mind and its thinking—”human life,” says Lucretius, “Lay foully grovelling on earth, weighed down/By grim Religion. . . . [O]ur darknesses of mind/Must be dispelled . . . by insight into nature, and a scheme/Of systematic contemplation” (The Way Things Are, in GBWW, Vol. 11). We read in the Syntopicon (GBWW, Vol. 2): “Except for Lu- cretius, the triumph of philosophy over religion does not seem to be central to ancient conceptions of philosophy’s contribution to the mind and life of man. In the pagan world, religious belief is either combined with philosophy to constitute the worship of the gods, which seems to be Plato’s view in the Laws; or it represents

Gateway to the Great Books76 the superstitions of the ignorant as opposed to the sophistication of the educated. Gibbon [in his Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire (GBWW, Vols. 37 and 38)] describes the rift between religion and philosophy not as a matter of intellectual controversy, but as a division of society into classes lacking or having the benefits of education—or, what is the same in the ancient world, instruction in philosophy. “But in the medieval world, the distinction between philosophy and religion seems to be essential to the consideration of the nature and value of philosophy. The importance of the distinction appears alike in the great books of the Christian tradition and in the great writings of the Islamic and Jewish cultures—in Augustine and Aquinas, Avicenna, Averroës, and Maimonides—though the problem of philosophy’s relation to religion and theology may be quite differently solved by each. In all three religious communities secular learning and sacred doctrine are set apart by their origin—the one from the efforts of human reason, the other from the word of God as revealed to the faithful. Even when it is held in highest esteem as the best achievement of secular learning, philosophy is for the most part regarded as inferior to the teachings of religion.” The reason is obvious: the medieval culture of Europe was uni- fied by religious faith. Before the Dark Ages fell upon Europe a great burst of light appeared in the person of Augustine (whose Confessions and City of God we read in Vol. 16 of Great Books of the Western World). The next volume in Great Books of the Western World is written eight hundred years later—the formidable Summa Theologica of Thomas Aquinas. In the interval between them, and until the renaissance of classical learning long after Aquinas, philosophy (like all other manifestations of the ancient Mediterranean civilization) was preserved by the Church and by churchmen. St. Augustine is one of the Fathers of the Christian Church, St. Thomas the “holy doctor” and his Summa the thirteenth-century capstone of the Middle Ages. No one denies that these two towering figures were great philoso- phers; nor that they were first of all men of religious faith. In Augustine’s view (according to the Syntopicon) philosophy “can . . . be dispensed with in all the major concerns of knowledge, love, or action. But Augustine does not argue that it should therefore be discarded. ‘If those who are called philosophers,’ he says, ‘and especially the Platonists, have said aught that is true and in harmony

P H I LOS OP HY 77 with our faith, we are not only not to shrink from it, but to claim it for our own use from those who have unlawful possession of it,’ even as the spoils of the Egyptians belong to the Jews.” The Syntopicon continues: “Though Augustine and Aquinas con- ceive the relation of faith and reason differently, they seem to share a conception of philosophy as the handmaiden of theology when faith seeks understanding. For Aquinas this does not appear to imply lack of dignity or even the loss of a certain autonomy on the part of philosophy. On the contrary, so highly does he regard the demonstrations of Aristotle, whom he calls ‘the philosopher,’ that he opens the Summa Theologica with the question ‘Whether, besides the philosophical sciences, any further doctrine is required.’ “He answers that ‘it was necessary for the salvation of man that certain truths which exceed human reason should be made known to him by divine revelation. Even as regards those truths about God which human reason can investigate, it was necessary that man be taught by a divine revelation. For the truth about God, such as reason can know it, would only be known by a few, and that after a long time, and with the admixture of many errors; whereas man’s whole salvation, which is in God, depends upon the knowledge of this truth . . .’ ” (GBWW, Vol. 2). Two Kind of Theology Thus the need of the “sacred science,” theology. But here it is necessary to make the classical division of theology itself—a division which the modern skeptics deny or, more often, ignore. Theology has two branches—the dogmatic and the natural. Dogma is based upon the revelation of the Scriptures. God does not argue with Moses, or try to prove the validity of the Ten Commandments; he says, “Thou shalt” and “Thou shalt not”; he is laying down the Law. So, too, Christ’s ever-repeated phrase, “I say unto you . . .” is the voice of authority which neither reasons nor appeals to reason (however “reasonable” or “unreasonable” the commandments may be). Moses and Christ are not philosophers. Dogmatic theology is the explication of the articles of faith; it belongs wholly to religion proper, and draws upon reason only to reach conclusions from premises established by the Word of God. But natural theology rests wholly upon reason. It may serve faith; in any case, reason must reach the same conclusions as faith (though

Gateway to the Great Books78 it may not reach so far) if faith is taken to be true; in the religious view, faith and the power of reason both proceed from God, Who, being perfect, is without falsehood or contradiction. But the problems of natural theology are in no sense whatever dogmatic. They are independent of religion, and they are studied and argued by men of all religions and of none. Whoever wants to see natural theology in operation should open the Summa Theologica to page 12d (GBWW, Vol. 18) and study the short passage which begins with the celebrated words, “I answer that, the existence of God can be proved in five ways.” The famous “five proofs” are all of them drawn from reason alone, and, indeed, they draw most heavily upon the thinking of the great Greek pagan, Aristotle. They are not all of them easy to comprehend at every point—far from it—and some of them are subject of philosophical attack. But in no respect does any one of them at any step rely upon revelation or faith. And Henry Adams, in his essay on Aquinas (Vol. 10), expounding on the great struggle between theology and science, points out that “the quality that rouses most surprise in Thomism is its astonishingly scientific method.” As philosophy attacks theology, so science attacks philosophy; and on the same ground, namely, that it cannot demonstrate its pro- cedures or verify its conclusions in the way that the natural sciences do. The phrase “armchair philosophy” makes the point; without the laboratory and its controlled experimentation and demonstration in action no knowledge is really binding upon the reason, and no claim to knowledge can be validated. The ancient and medieval scientists called themselves philosophers, but the giants of modern science—beginning with Galileo, Newton, Huygens, and, in the eighteenth century, Lavoisier and Fourier—made the distinction of calling their work “experimental philosophy.” “In this phrase,” according to the Syntopicon (GBWW, Vol. 2), “lies the root of the distinction between philosophy and science as that distinction is generally understood by writers since the 18th century. The word ‘experimental’ applied to philosophy signifies a radical difference in the method of inquiry and even in the objects to be investigated, for certain objects can be known only by experimental or empirical research. Kant appears to be the first (in the great books at least) to make a sharp separation between the investigation of either nature or mind by what he calls ‘empirical’ as opposed to ‘rational’ methods. He still uses the name ‘science’ for

P H I LOS OP HY 79 both sorts of investigation, but he appears to restrict ‘philosophy’ to the latter—the pure, the a priori, the rational sciences. “Kant’s innovations in vocabulary plainly announce the separa- tion of philosophy from mathematics and experimental science, which is only intimated by earlier modern writers. . . . The final step is taken in the 19th century when the word ‘science’ is restricted to mathematics and to such knowledge of nature, man, and society as can be obtained by the methods of experimental or empirical research. William James, for example, stresses the fact that he is trying to expound psychology as one of the natural sciences, and to that end he tries to separate the problems which are capable of empirical investigation from those which belong to philosophical speculation. For Freud that separation is an accomplished fact, and one which leaves to philosophy no problem that can be solved by science. “According to Freud, ‘it is inadmissable to declare that science is one field of human intellectual activity, and that religion and philos- ophy are others, at least as valuable, and that science has no business to interfere with the other two.’ On the contrary, Freud thinks it is right for scientific research to look ‘on the whole field of human activity as its own,’ and to criticize the unscientific formulations of philosophy. The trouble with philosophy is that ‘it behaves itself as if it were a science . . . but it parts company with science, in that it clings to the illusion that it can produce a complete and coherent picture of the universe.’ It is this illusion which science continually punctures, since, in Freud’s opinion, ‘that picture must needs fall to pieces with every new advance in our knowledge.’” It is questionable whether the nineteenth-century scientist who said that he “never saw a soul in a test tube” would accept either James’s psychology or Freud’s psychoanalysis as science; but it is clear that he would accept neither theology nor philosophy. So, too, the atheist of our own time, observing, as did the Soviet cosmonaut Titov, that he “saw no God or angels” during his orbits of the earth may find himself drawn all the way back to the outright materialism of the ancient Roman Lucretius, who, though his view of the world was not as sophisticated as the modern physicist’s, believed that the universe and everything in it could be explained by the constitution and motion of atoms. The denial of the existence in humans—or anywhere else—of the immaterial leads ineluctably to the denial not only of the Greek or Christian ideas of soul, but also of the

Gateway to the Great Books80 concept of the existence of mind apart from brain cells and central nervous system. Mind Looks at Itself The age-old effort to comprehend the mind and catch it “red- handed” in the act of thinking has resulted in some of the most penetrating inquiry of both philosophers and, in modern times, psy- chologists. In The Principles of Human Knowledge (GBWW, Vol. 33), the eighteenth-century English philosopher Berkeley staunchly refuses to concede that there is any question that the mind cannot answer. “I am inclined to think,” he says, “that the far greater part . . . of those difficulties which have . . . blocked up the way to knowledge, are entirely owing to ourselves—that we have first raised a dust and then complain we cannot see.” But Berkeley’s optimism has not been justified—at least not yet. We are still asking, two hundred years later, what the mind is and how it works. Modern psychology, particularly in America, though it may not have advanced the inquiry, has produced an approach to it that had not previously been emphasized, in either ancient or modern Europe. “The Americans,” the Encyclopædia Britannica says, “were bound to be practical and functional, to see mind in terms of its use for the survival of the organism in the struggle of the race for existence and in the social competition of the individual for success.” Hence in the United States, at the end of the nineteenth century, there emerged a functional—or “is-for”—view of the human mind. This view, which first appears in William James’s The Principles of Psychology (G BWW, Vol. 53) is the basis of pragmatism, the philosophy which appears in his writings (in Vols. 7 and 10 of this set and in full in GBWW, Vol. 55). But its most famous exponent is the late John Dewey, whose influence on American philosophy was almost as great as his “progressive” influence in education. Dewey does not ask what the mind is; he asks what it is for. Thinking, he asserts, is a process that appears in response to one’s need to make a more adequate adjustment to the environment. It is aimed at straightening out tangles in the achievement of goals. Mankind wants something, and the activity of the mind is directed at getting it. The value of thinking lies in the fact that it makes action possible. “There is,” says Dewey (“The Process of Thought,” Vol. 10), “a challenge to understanding only when there is either a

P H I LOS OP HY 81 desired consequence for which means have to be found by inquiry, or things . . . are presented under conditions where reflection is required to see what consequences can be effected by their use.” It is our desire to get what we want that underlies philosophy and all philosophical systems, says James: “Pretend what we may, the whole man within us is at work when we form our philosophical opinions. Intellect, will, taste, and passion cooperate just as they do in practical affairs; and lucky it is if the passion be not something as petty as a love of personal conquest over the philosopher across the way. . . . It is almost incredible,” he goes on to say, “that men who are themselves working philosophers should pretend that any philosophy can be, or ever has been, constructed without the help of personal preference, belief, or divination. How have they succeeded in so stultifying their sense for the living facts of human nature as not to perceive that every philosopher, or man of science either, whose initiative counts for anything in the evolution of thought, has taken his stand on a sort of dumb conviction that the truth must lie in one direction rather than another . . . ?” (The Sentiment of Rationality, Vol. 10). This view that intellectual objectivity is impossible would be familiar to the great philosophers of earlier times and equally to the natural scientists of our own day. A nuclear physicist might object to being told that he has “taken his stand on a sort of dumb conviction.” Yet there is a sense in which philosophy long ago posited something analogous to the “dumb conviction” as the indispensable first step in thinking, and that is in regard to first principles. First principles, or statements of ultimate ends, are classically the starting points of all thought. And from Aristotle’s argument that first principles are apprehended intuitively to Mill’s assertion that no first principle can be proved, philosophers ancient and modern have maintained that these foundations of reasoning are not to be discovered by the reasoning process. Whence, then, come first principles? What is meant by “intuition,” a term commonly held in contempt? Is it the same in everyone, or different from society to society (or even from individual to individual)? Traditionally philosophy has taken the view that it proceeds from natural law—not to be confused with the laws which govern the physical universe. Natural law (which theology also recognizes) is thought to be inherent in the mind of every person. One—anyone anywhere—has but to consult reason to discover, at

Gateway to the Great Books82 once, or intuitively, the principles of the natural law and the ends to which life is directed. The natural law is what each of us is, so to say, born knowing. Is it sufficient without human law? No; human law is required in society to explicate it, to spell out the natural law in terms of the varied and complicated circumstances of society. Is it sufficient without faith? The believer would say No, insofar as we are directed to an end beyond nature, but natural theology would say that it is sufficient for this life. When the authors of The Declaration of Independence speak of “the separate and equal station to which the laws of nature . . . entitle” a people (Vol. 6), they are referring to the natural law, not to the “laws of nature” by which the physical universe seems to operate. What is the relation between these laws of nature and the natural law? Ralph Waldo Emerson’s essay on Nature—perhaps his most famous piece of work—is published in Volume 10 of this set. In it Emerson sees man and everything he is and does to be a part of nature. “If,” he says, “we consider how much we are nature’s, we need not be superstitious about towns, as if that terrific or benefic force did not find us there also, and fashion cities. Nature, who made the mason, made the house. . . . A man does not tie his shoe without recognizing laws which bind the farthest regions of nature. . . .” J. S. Mill, in his essay by the same name (also in Volume 10), disagrees. Nature is reckless. Nature is cruel. Nature is the enemy, frustrating our best efforts, and to follow it would be irrational, wasteful, and immoral. Almost everything that makes life endurable is a work of art; nature must be rejected as the measure of right and good because “the course of natural phenomena being replete with everything which when committed by human beings is most worthy of abhorrence, anyone who endeavoured in his actions to imitate the natural course of things would be universally seen and acknowledged to be the wickedest of men.” Rx: Consult the Heart But what we have created with our arts—above all, with those arts we nowadays call science—we fear will destroy us. And even if it does not destroy us, we feel ourselves being engulfed by it. The urge to “get away from it all” overwhelms every sensitive person from time to time. William James, commenting on the “modern me-

P H I LOS OP HY 83 chanico-physical philosophy of which we are all so proud, because it includes the nebular cosmogony, the kinetic theory of heat and gases, etc., etc.,” laments that, “The sentimental facts and relations are butchered at a blow” (Principles of Psychology, in GBWW, Vol. 53). And he adds: “Science can tell us what exists; but to compare the worths, both of what exists and what does not exist, we must consult not science, but what Pascal calls our heart. Science herself consults her heart when she lays it down that the infinite ascertainment of fact and correction of false belief are the supreme goods for man” (The Will to Believe, Vol. 10 in this set). But where—and what—is this “heart” that we must consult instead of science when we ask about the worth of things? Is it philosophy? Religion? What? It is easy to speak of the heart, and James shows us that even scientists find their first principles there; but to bring the mind to bear upon it, even to locate it intellectually, is less easy. If the laws of nature (which science investigates in order to achieve its mastery of nature) do not disclose the “heart” to us, what does? Is it the anciently accepted—and more often rejected today—natural law which reason reveals to him “who will but consult it”? Is the nature of mankind something entirely other than the nature of the physical universe? Is the secret of life locked up in it beyond the power of anything more scientific than intuition? In his Ethics of Belief (Vol. 10), W. K. Clifford refuses to accept these indemonstrables. He is not satisfied with James’s “heart,” and he protests that, “It is wrong in all cases to believe on insufficient evidence; and where it is presumption to doubt and to investigate, there it is worse than presumption to believe.” He says “It [belief] is desecrated when given to unproved and unquestioned statements, for the solace and private pleasure of the believer; to add a tinsel splendour to the plain straight road of our life and display a bright mirage beyond it; or even to drown the common sorrows of our kind by a self-deception which allows them not only to cast down, but also to degrade us.” But how are we to live, when the things we are able to know on “sufficient evidence” are inadequate to our happiness? Whither shall we turn to meet our needs in this life? Philosophy has always called us back to ourselves, to the study and knowledge of our own natures, and to the law of life which we discover there. Noting that “all men plume themselves on the improvement of society, and no man improves,” Emerson, in his

Gateway to the Great Books84 passionate essay on Self-Reliance (Vol. 10), summons the individual to “learn to detect and watch that gleam of light which flashes across his mind from within . . .” He who does—and he only—will be a man. But to be a man, Emerson insists, is to be a nonconformist to society: “To be great is to be misunderstood.” There is something of the ancient Stoic philosophy in this ac- ceptance of self even if it means rejection by the world. Plutarch (Contentment, Vol. 10) points out that whatever may happen to a person is largely beyond that person’s control; but how he reacts to what happens is within his own power: “Fortune can infect a man with sickness, take his money away, malign him to his countrymen or a tyrant; but she cannot make a good and virile and high-spirited man a poltroon or mean-spirited or ignoble or envious.” And the most stoical of all the Stoics, Epictetus, declares that, “You can be unconquerable if you enter into no combat in which it is not in your own power to conquer” (The Enchiridion, Vol. 10). Is this the way to live—or is it the counsel of escape from the challenge of life? Epicurus, in his Letter to Menoeceus (Vol. 10), reveals how close to Stoicism is the Epicurean doctrine that pleasure is the end of life. For pleasure here involves, above all, one’s freeing oneself from desire for external things: “Independence of desire we think a great good—not that we may at all times enjoy but a few things, but that, if we do not possess many, we may enjoy the few in the genuine persuasion that those have the sweetest pleasure in luxury who least need it, and that all that is natural is easy to be obtained, but that which is superfluous is hard.” Here the serenity which Plutarch counsels seems to be the ulti- mate goal and the key to successful living. Philosophy appears in its role of consolation and solace which Clifford disdains, enabling us to accept life rather, perhaps, than to live. But Santayana, in his essay on Goethe (Vol. 10), finds another moral entirely in Faust: “To live, to live just as we do, that—if we could only realize it—is the purpose and the crown of living.” So, too, Walter Pater in “The Art of Life” (Vol. 10): “Not the fruit of experience, but experience itself, is the end. . . . To burn always with this hard, gemlike flame, to maintain this ecstasy, is success in life.” The service of philosophy to the human spirit, he adds, “is to rouse, to startle it to a life of constant and eager observation.” However philosophy may serve the human spirit—or whether it serves it at all—the fact is that we are all philosophers. Our

P H I LOS OP HY 85 philosophy may be good or bad, profound or nonsensical, useful or useless, but we cannot help asking the questions it asks: What and who am I? What is life for and how should I live it? What is right and what is wrong? What are my rights and duties toward others? What is happiness, and how is it to be pursued, obtained, and secured? In a word, we all philosophize, and philosophy, unlike the so-called “exact” sciences, deals with all the commonplace problems of everyone’s life. In this sense every good book we read, every painting, every sunset, every symphony is philosophical: It says something to us about the questions we cannot help asking. We are all philosophers and, it may be, theologians. We may not know it; we may not like it; we may call ourselves agnostics (know-nothings) or atheists (disbelievers); but whether we affirm or deny God’s existence, or say that we simply don’t know, we are saying something about a theological subject. Willingly or unwillingly, wittingly or unwittingly, we are moving in the realm of natural theology. Are we all dogmatists, too? Believers? The atheist believes that there is no God. The motorist driving at high speed believes that there won’t be a blowout. The scientist believes that it is good to know. But there are things none of us know “for sure,” and other things we cannot know at all. The future is hidden from us, and prediction and prophecy fail. We plan—and catastrophe (or a stroke of good fortune) smashes our plan to smithereens. Today’s sixteen-year-old is old enough to know how radically different the world is today from what we thought it would be, intended it to be, at, say, the end of World War II. And it would be a reckless person indeed who was ready to predict with confidence what the world will be like a year from now. Of Youth and Age Amid the uncertainties of life, this much is certain: Whoever lives long enough will grow old. This too: Whoever grows old will first grow older. What follows from this succession of obvious certainties is the commonsense conclusion that we should prepare ourselves for all of life, and not just for that part that passes fastest. It is not impossible to form new mental habits in middle life, or even in old age; but it is an achievement of note, an exception.

Gateway to the Great Books86 On the other hand, we all know of a person whose mental powers, developed in youth, were more acute than ever in their eighties and even in their nineties—from Sophocles in the fourth century B.C. to Justice Oliver Wendell Holmes in our own time. Sophocles must have been ninety, when, according to Cicero in his On Old Age (Vol. 10), “his sons brought him into court to get a judicial decision depriving him of the management of his property on the ground of weak intellect. . . . Thereupon the old poet is said to have read to the judges the play he had on hand and had just composed—Oedipus Coloneus [Oedipus at Colonus, GBWW, Vol. 4]—and to have asked them whether they thought that the work of a man of weak intellect. After the reading he was acquitted by the jury.” What we all want is a satisfying life. Assuming a modest economic sufficiency, one who is happy (or as happy as one may be expected to be in this life) is everywhere esteemed rich, and one who is unhappy poor. Nor have the philosophers dismissed wealth, power, or fame as the condition of human happiness simply because these goods are unworthy, but, rather, because they are achieved and lost by chance, because they depend on others for their achievement and loss, and because, like the pleasures of the moment, they are transient. When, then, we think of happiness over a whole life and ask ourselves what course we should take in youth that will be most likely to produce it, the wisdom of the ages commends to us the path of Socrates, who in his old age was sent to his death by an Athens whose chief glory he is today. While his trial, imprisonment, and execution are set forth in those three magic dialogues of Plato, the Apology, the Crito, and the Phaedo (GBWW, Vol. 6), another of his contemporaries, Xenophon, tells us (“The Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6) of a conversation the great philosopher held with his friend Hermogenes just before the trial: “When Meletus had actually formulated his indictment,” Hermogenes told Xenophon, “Socrates talked freely in my presence, but made no reference to the case. I told him that he ought to be thinking about his defence. His first remark was, ‘Don’t you think that I have been preparing for it all my life?’ And when I asked him how, he said that he had been constantly occupied in the consideration of right and wrong, and in doing what was right and avoiding what was wrong, which he regarded as the best preparation for a defence. Then I said, ‘Don’t you see, Socrates, that the juries in our courts are apt to be misled by argument, so that they often put the

P H I LOS OP HY 87 innocent to death, and acquit the guilty?’ ‘Ah, yes, Hermogenes,’ he answered, ‘but when I did try to think out my defence to the jury, the deity at once resisted,’ ‘Strange words,’ said I; and he, ‘Do you think it strange, if it seems better to God that I die now? Don’t you see that to this day I never would acknowledge that any man had lived a better or a pleasanter life than I? For they live best, I think, who strive best to become as good as possible: and the pleasant life is theirs who are conscious that they are growing in goodness.’” There may be those who think that Socrates was wrong—or who live as if they did—but there are few who want to argue the point with him. Most of us, rather, as we grow older, spend our time putting the blame on others—or on bad luck—for our failure to live as he did and enjoy as pleasant a life. But the abiding pleasure of a whole life is not entirely in our stars, but in ourselves. There are none of us so persistently ridden by misfortune that we have not had the occasion, again and again, to choose freely this fork in the road or that one, to resist or to yield, to say “Yes” or “No” and affect our own fates accordingly. To most people the last years of life, says Cicero in his On Old Age (Vol. 10), “are so hateful that they declare themselves under a weight heavier than Aetna.” He points out the contradiction that old age is something “to which all wish to attain, and at which all grumble when attained,” and examines the contradiction in the form of a dialogue, the most beautiful ever written on the subject, between the great Marcus Cato as an old man and two of his younger friends who come to inquire what the end of life is like. Jonathan Swift, in his Resolutions when I Come to Be Old (Vol. 7), means “Not to be peevish, or morose, or suspicious” but at the end of his resolutions indicates that he is likely to be all of them. Cicero, however, does not find Cato unhappy. The great Roman’s secret of happiness in old age is simply that people “keep their minds active and fully employed,” thus retaining the power of their intellects. Reminding his young friends that the aged Solon grew old “daily learning something new,” he asks them which of the two they would rather have given to them—the bodily strength of Milo, who stepped into the Olympics carrying a live ox on his shoulders, or intellectual strength like that of Pythagoras.

Gateway to the Great Books88 Of Death There is one more certainty in life—the absolute of all absolutes— and that is death. This one certainty overrides our lives from the first time we have seen a sparrow, or a worm, that doesn’t move no matter how we prod it. But we do not know what it is to die—nor do we know if we shall know even at the moment of death—nor what it is to be dead. What little we know of death is physiological: the dust returneth to dust. For the rest, we believe. We are, we must be, dogmatists, however we try to escape. And death colors our view of life—and more than colors it. It forms it. It lies at the very center of all our philosophy. It tells us some of the answers to some of the hardest questions philosophy asks. It tells us—as Sir Thomas Browne says—of our “vanity, feeding the wind, and folly.” In his deathless dissertation on death (“Immortality,” from Urn-Burial, Vol. 10), this seventeenth-century doctor-philosopher-theologian celebrates the futility of monuments and of man’s every effort to be great, in life no less than in memory. Those who would build themselves monuments would be well advised to live according to the precepts of philosophy: Had the builders of their own mausoleums “made as good provisions for their names as they have done for their relics, they had not so grossly erred in the art of perpetuation. . . . Happy are they whom privacy makes innocent, who deal so with men in this world that they are not afraid to meet them in the next, who, when they die, make no commotion among the dead.” Browne’s notable essay will ring strange in youthful ears. It is a classic contribution to the literature of melancholy, and youth is more properly addicted to mirth, adventure, success, and the stars. So philosophy is hard to “sell” to young people; but it is young people above all who have the courage to confront it, and to be undismayed by the questions that are hardest to answer. The key to philosophy is nothing more than this: since every child philosophizes, youth is not a moment too soon to enter the company of the great philosophers and partake of the banquet they spread before us.

89 VI The Endless Journey In The Republic, Plato outlines an ideal system of education. Here is the timetable: up until the age of twenty, music and gymnastics, for the development of a useful body and sharpened sensibilities; between twenty and thirty, the liberal arts, grammar, rhetoric, logic, and especially mathematics, for the training of a disciplined mind, a mind skilled in the operations of learning and thinking; between thirty and fifty, a period devoted to the world’s work, engagement in the various activities of civic life, experience of the pains and frustrations of practical problems, personal and public; and then, finally, at fifty, return to the academy for ten years of the study of philosophy. Then—and only then—is anyone fit to govern the state! Plato’s scheme is as Utopian now as it was in his day. It nevertheless makes the point that there is no way to rush maturity; understanding in its deepest sense, of things both theoretical and practical, requires the long, hard experience that the years alone provide. To say that a young man or woman is intellectually mature is only to say that the mind well-disciplined and self-disciplined is as perfect an instrument for operating on the materials of thought as it ever will be. But the materials are not yet available, nor can they be made available, by theoretical procedures or by imitations of real life. The problems that confront older persons are more complex than those of youth; and the consequences of their decisions are more far- reaching. The young adult can choose wrongly and rectify an error; life still lies ahead. The older adult has a harder time rectifying errors and “starting over,” for too much of life is over; the price has risen; and others are profoundly affected by our failures and successes. There is something poignant about understanding; the deeper it sinks itself into our lives the sadder we are, thinking of the good use we might have made of it had we had it earlier. Poignant, too, is the effort of the old to impress their understanding on the young, for the young are unable to comprehend it; intellectually, yes; emotionally,

Gateway to the Great Books90 no. Adventure beckons us when we are young, reflection upon ad- venture enlightens us later on. Without adventure, human progress would be impossible; without reflection it might be disastrous. The thinking of great writers does more than elevate our own. It throws a light on our own experiences and our own lives that in- spires us. What we learn, as experience and reflection accumulate, is to examine ourselves; and it is with self-examination that the way to wisdom is hewn. Wisdom does not come packaged nor does another person’s wisdom attach itself to us uninvited. Neither do we put it on all at once like a suit of clothes. Rather it grows as we grow, organically. The cross-examination to which the great books submit us has a friendly, not a punitive, purpose: to lead us to cross- examine ourselves and to test our own thinking. This is education. And in this sense it may be said without quali- fication that only adults can become educated. Young people fresh from school or college do not know that they do not know. How could they? Have they not spent ten or fifteen years doing nothing but learning? Have they not had the benefit of the best schools, the best teachers—even, for argument’s sake, the best books? If there were anything important to teach them, would not a first-class school system have found it out “by this time”? The older person cannot resist smiling—nor can the young person ten or twenty years afterward. Here is the paradox of our existence. The soil which education requires—maturity—is never ready for it. To be mature is to have finished growth; a mature apple is a ripe apple. Its maturity lasts, so to say, for a moment. Before that moment it was green; after that moment it begins to die. When does a human being reach that perfect and evanescent state of his development? The mature person is one, strictly, who has as nearly as possi- ble become ripe, the adult potentialities fully developed. But some people are cut off at eighty or ninety by physical death while they are still maturing. The growth of a Sophocles or a Holmes, who are still at work when the end comes, is far from finished when death interrupts it. People who stop growing intellectually and spiritually at thirty or forty are as mature as they will ever be, however long they live. But they have not really grown up, for they are satisfied with less than they might have. We spend our adult lives, then, ap- proaching maturity. We never reach it. Strictly speaking, the mature person has never existed.

TH E E N D LE S S J O U R N EY 91 “It is better,” says John Stuart Mill, “to be a human being dis- satisfied than a pig satisfied . . . And if the fool, or the pig, are of a different opinion, it is because they only know their own side of the question. The other party to the comparison knows both sides.” It may be objected, Mill goes on, “that many who begin with youthful enthusiasm for everything noble, as they advance in years sink into indolence and selfishness. But I do not believe that those who undergo this very common change, voluntarily choose the lower description of pleasures in preference to the higher. I believe that before they devote themselves exclusively to the one, they have already become incapable of the other. Capacity for the nobler feelings is in most natures a very tender plant, easily killed, not only by hostile influences, but by mere want of sustenance; and in the majority of young persons it speedily dies away if the occupations to which their position in life has devoted them, and the society into which it has thrown them, are not favourable to keeping that higher capacity in exercise” (Utilitarianism, in GBWW, Vol. 40). The dissatisfied person, in other words, is the one who is continuously maturing, one who has embarked on a journey without an end. We never fully grow up, but we must continue to try to. The earlier the habit of reading good books is formed, the sooner it becomes habitual. It enables us even in youth, and all the more so as we go on in years, to be at home in the world of clear thinking and exalted imagination. A schooled and skilled people is a free people in the fullest sense only when it is a thinking people. The societies of the West, America above all, are not distinctively contemplative; they are societies of great action whose triumphs of discovery, invention, and production have changed the face of the earth. Now they must turn, not to the stars, but to themselves, to make of life a rich experience and of the world a livable place. If anything is clear to us today, it is that the rising generation will have to think, and to think hard and straight. Neither the random romping of a child, nor the porcine satisfaction of a pig, nor yet the dreadful monotony of an empty adulthood will serve ourselves or the family of man. What will serve both is the constant employment of our highest faculties, at once assuaging and aggravating the divine discontent of the thinker. So far may human happiness extend over the whole of a long life. This set is published with the faith that all human beings, of whatever age, can achieve that happiness, and in the hope that they will.

92 Syntopical Guide As its name implies, this guide to the contents of Gateway to the Great Books is based on the Syntopicon, which comprises Volumes 1 and 2 of Great Books of the Western World. The Syntopicon serves the readers of the Great Books in a number of ways. It contains 102 essays introducing readers to the great ideas as these are discussed in the Great Books. It contains lists of addi- tional readings on each of the 102 great ideas. It provides readers with useful bibliographical information. But what it does principally is to enable them, on any subject of special interest, to read in the Great Books in a way that relates what various authors have to say on the subject. This mode of reading is quite different from reading a single book through. Without the Syntopicon, it would be impossible to do this kind of syntopical reading, for unless you had already read through the whole set, not once, but many times, you could not even begin to assemble all the related passages in the Great Books on a particular topic. The Syntopical Guide to Gateway to the Great Books is a similar device, enabling readers to do another kind of syntopical reading. For any particular selection in this set which happens to interest you, the Syntopical Guide directs you to other related selections in Gateway; it recommends the reading of related sections or passages in Great Books of the Western World; and it relates all these selec- tions in Gateway and passages in Great Books to the great ideas, or, more strictly, to certain topics under the great ideas which hap- pen to be major themes in the particular selection with which the reader began. The Syntopical Guide thus provides directions for reading in this set of books before one has read the whole set through. It does more than that for the person who also has Great Books of the Western

93I NTRO D U CTI O N World on his shelves. It makes it possible to go from each selection in Gateway to the most germane of related passages in Great Books. Anyone who examines the Syntopical Guide will quickly see why this set is a gateway to the great books; anyone who uses the Syn- topical Guide will have opened the gates. It is the key—and one that is quite easy to turn. In Section I of the Introduction, on ways of reading, some rules are recommended. It is there suggested that the active reading of a work requires us to ask—and try to answer—four questions about it: (1) What is the piece about? What is it trying to say? (2) How does it say what it is trying to say? (3) Is it true in whole or part? What reasons do we have for disagreeing with it? (4) What of it? What meaning does it have for us? (See page 5, above.) In addi- tion, a whole series of rules are proposed for reading any piece of literature, whether narrative or expository, in a number of ways— analytically, interpretatively, and critically. (See pp. 8–14, above.) All these rules or recommendations serve the reader well when the aim is to read one book or one piece of writing as throughly as possible—but by itself and in isolation from other books or pieces of writing. Good readers, however, usually have one further question in mind, a question which goes beyond the four questions proposed in the Introduction. They ask themselves how the particular piece that they are reading is related to other pieces of writing. Or, to put the question another way, they want to know what other pieces of writing deal with the same general themes—themes which are central in the piece they are reading now. The Syntopical Guide answers this question for them, at least so far as two large sets of books are concerned, comprising in all more than 650 works. The rules proposed earlier give the reader guidance on how to read a single work, whereas the Syntopical Guide shows how to read not just one but two large collections of works. To do this, the Syntopical Guide has been organized in the follow- ing manner. It lists in alphabetical order each of the authors who has one or more writings in Gateway. It thus provides an alphabetical in- dex, by authors’ names, to the contents of this set. (The endpapers, to be found in each volume of the set, indicate the contents of the several volumes by listing the names of the authors in the order in which they appear in that volume.) The authors’ names constitute what we shall call the main entries in the Syntopical Guide. There are 133 of them. The operative units

Syntopical Guide94 of the Guide are more numerous, for they are constituted by the one or more works of each author included in this set. For example, in the case of Charles Darwin, one selection— his Autobiography—constitutes the syntopical unit. In the case of Ralph Waldo Emerson, there are four such units, i.e., one for each of the four of his essays included in this set: Thoreau, Nature, Self- Reliance, and Montaigne; or, the Skeptic. In the case of David Hume, there also happen to be four units, but one of these units comprises three essays which are grouped together because they all deal with the same general themes; thus here the four syntopical units are as follows: (1) Of the Standard of Taste; (2) Of Refinement in the Arts; (3) Of Money, Of the Balance of Trade, and Of Taxes; (4) Of the Study of History. Wherever two or more selections, whether singly or grouped, constitute distinct syntopical units under a main entry (i.e., a particular author), the units are placed in an order that corresponds to the order in which the several selections appear in the volumes of this set. So much for the overall structure of the Syntopical Guide—its 133 main entries (one for each author) and the one or more syn- topical units under each of these. Now let us turn to the structure of the syntopical units, of which there are 214. Each of these is divided into three principal parts. The first part carries the heading SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon; the second part, the heading RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World; the third part, the heading RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books. In certain instances, there is a fourth heading, which usually consists of a reference to other works by the author in question when these are included in Great Books of the Western World. For example, in the case of Darwin, this fourth heading reads “For other works by Darwin in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 49.” And when a selection in Gateway deals with an author in Great Books, this fourth heading refers to the works of the latter. For example, in the case of Macaulay’s essay on Machiavelli, the fourth heading reads “For Machiavelli’s The Prince in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 21.” The fourth heading needs no further explanation, but something more must be said about the three principal headings of each syntopical unit. Let us take these up in the order in which they occur.

95I NTRO D U CTI O N (1) SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon. Here the subordinate entries consist of the names of one or more of the great ideas, con- cerning each of which there is a separate chapter in the Syntopicon. The great ideas referred to are listed in the alphabetical order in which they appear in the Syntopicon. In every case, the reference to a great idea is followed by the citation of the volume in the Syntopi- con where that great idea is treated. For example, an entry may read as follows: “CUSTOM AND CONVENTION, Vol. 1.” The opening section in each chapter of the Syntopicon consists of an essay on the great idea that is the subject of that chapter, giving an account of its meanings, its development, and the major issues or problems that have been discussed. If you own a Syntopicon it is strongly recommended that you read the essays on whatever ideas are cited under the first heading in the syntopical unit with which you happen to be dealing. In most cases, but not always, the citation of a chapter in the Syntopicon is followed by reference to one or more topics that are especially of interest to the reader in connection with the work in Gateway under consideration. For example, in the case of Darwin’s Autobiography, the user of the Syntopical Guide will find a reference that runs as follows: EVOLUTION, Vol. 1 especially Topic 5: The facts of evolution: evidences bearing on the history of life on earth The user will also find a reference which involves two or more topics, as follows: SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The comparison of science with poetry and history Topic 5a: The role of experience; observation and experiment The one or more topics referred to in each case will be found in that section of a Syntopicon chapter which is called “OUTLINE OF TOPICS.” This always immediately follows the essay with which the chapter opens. It in turn is immediately followed by a section called “REFERENCES.” Here owners of the Syntopicon will again find the particular topics to which they have been referred, but now under each topic are listed references to the relevant passages in Great

Syntopical Guide96 Books of the Western World. Hence they can look up for themselves passages in Great Books that are related to the selection in Gateway in which they happen to be interested; and they can do this in the light of the topic under which these passages are assembled. Readers of Gateway who do not own a Syntopicon cannot, of course, make the aforementioned use of these references to the great ideas and topics under them; but they should not therefore dis- miss them entirely. They have considerable significance, inasmuch as they indicate the principal themes or subjects being discussed or treated in the Gateway selection under consideration. In addition, they control the content of the next two parts of the syntopical unit. The related authors or works in Great Books of the Western World or in Gateway to the Great Books are related to the Gateway selection under consideration precisely because they are relevant to the same general themes or subjects—those indicated by the ideas and topics cited under the first principal heading of each syntopical unit. (2) RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World. Here the subordinate entries consist of references to authors in the Great Books set, listed in the order in which they appear in that set, according to volume number. In addition to giving the number of the volume in which the author appears, the reference always gives the title of the work by the author who is being referred to. Sometimes the whole work is cited, but more frequently the reference is to a relatively short passage or series of passages. Where the work as a whole is cited, the reference is simply to the volume number; but where a short passage is cited, the reference will sometimes give the part of the work from which it is taken as well as the volume number. The following examples represent three different typical styles of reference: (i) Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Romeo and Juliet (which is a reference to the whole play) (ii) Plato, Vol. 6, Apology (which is a reference to one of the dialogues) (iii) Lucretius, Vol. 11, The Way Things Are, Bk. I and Bk. II (which is a reference to two passages in the work) (3) RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books. Here the subordinate entries consist of references to authors in the Gateway set, listed in alphabetical order—the order in which they appear in the Syntopical Guide. As contrasted with the refer-

97I NTRO D U CTI O N ences above to related authors in the Great Books set, most of which cite relatively short passages rather than whole works, the refer- ences to related authors in the Gateway set always cite the whole selection as it appears in Gateway. Readers of Gateway who also own Great Books will be able to make use of the references given under the first and second head- ings. For them, the second heading supplements the first in the following fashion. The references given under the second heading recommend works or passages in the Great Books set which, in the judgment of the editors, are most germane to the selection in Gateway under consideration; i.e., they are works or passages which are most rele- vant to the ideas or topics treated in that Gateway selection. Under the first heading, those same ideas or topics are cited. Readers who look up all the passages in the Great Books cited under the ideas and topics mentioned will have undertaken the fullest possible explo- ration of related passages, and will necessarily have found passages varying widely in degree of relevance, not just the ones that are most germane. Thus the entries under the first heading provide readers with a way of making the fullest possible exploration of related passages in the Great Books set, whereas the entries under the second heading enable them to confine themselves to the most relevant of related passages, selected by the editors. The latter entries are clearly not meant to be exhaustive. Readers who wish to make a more exhaustive exploration of related passages in Great Books can do so by using the Syntopicon with the guidance of the entries under the first heading. So much for readers who own both sets. We have already pointed out the significance of the first heading for readers who have only Gateway to the Great Books (see page 96, above). For such readers, the second heading has only the minimum utility of calling to their attention, for later study, related authors and works in Great Books. So far as further syntopical reading is concerned, it is the entries under the third heading which are of maximum utility at once; for, by using them, readers can turn from the selection in Gateway that they are reading to other related selections in this set. A syntopical reading of the contents of Gateway is, of course, not the only way to read this set. Another way, which many readers may prefer, is suggested elsewhere—dipping in here and there, accord-

Syntopical Guide98 ing to one’s individual taste or fancy. There is still another way of reading the materials here contained: Start with the easiest or most readable selections and go on, in progressive stages of reading, to more and more difficult ones. For those who wish to proceed in this latter fashion, the Plan of Graded Reading (set forth in the Appendix, which follows the Syntopical Guide) lists the selections in Gateway in an order that roughly corresponds to ascending grades of difficulty. This Plan enables the individual to pursue an organized course of readings in this set. It differs from the Syntopical Guide in that it recommends the reading of whole works, one after another, without regard to their special relevance to one another (though the Plan does group the readings in Gateway according to the type of literature to which they belong); whereas, in contrast, the Syntopical Guide recommends the reading of related works without regard to their level of difficulty. HENRY ADAMS, 1838–1918 “The United States in 1800” from History of the United States of America Vol. 6, pages 322–359 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: The derogation of democracy: the anarchic tendency of freedom and equality LABOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7f: The relation of economic to political freedom: eco- nomic democracy LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6a: The historical significance of freedom: stages in the realization of freedom; the beginning and end of the historical process PROGRESS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1: The idea of progress in the philosophy of history Topic 6: Intellectual or cultural progress: its sources and impediments; the analogy of cultural progress to biologi- cal evolution

99 STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4: The physical foundations of society: the geographic and biologic conditions of the state Topic 9a: Commerce and trade between states: commercial rival- ries and trade agreements; free trade and tariffs WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The production of wealth in the political community RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. VIII Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. IV, Chap. I Articles of Confederation, Vol. 40 Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 13–14 Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of Right, Third Part; Philosophy of His- tory, Fourth Part Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part II, Chaps. 7–8 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Calhoun, “Concurrent Majority,” Vol. 7 Crèvecoeur, “Making of Americans,” Vol. 6 Franklin, Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania, Vol. 6 Great Documents, Virginia Declaration of Rights; Declaration of Inde- pendence, Vol. 6 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Jefferson, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute, Vol. 6 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Washington, Farewell Address, Vol. 6 St. Thomas Aquinas Vol. 10, pages 422–450 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon GOD, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b: The evidences and proofs of God’s existence Topic 5a: God as first and as exemplar cause: the relation of divine to natural causation Topic 5g: God’s will: divine choice MIND, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: The immateriality of mind: mind as an immaterial prin- ciple, a spiritual substance, or as an incorporeal power functioning without a bodily organ A DA M S

Syntopical Guide100 WILL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4a: The relation of the divine will and intellect Topic 6b: The distinction between the will’s freedom of exercise and the will’s freedom of choice RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, First Part, Q 1–11 Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Paradise, Cantos I, X–XII, XXXIII Montaigne, Vol. 23, Apology for Raymond Sebond Descartes, Vol. 28, Meditation III Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part I Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. IV, VII, VIII Locke, Vol. 33, Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Bk. II, Chaps. XXI, XXIII Hume, Vol. 33, Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sect. XI Freud, Vol. 54, New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis, Lec- ture 35 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Eliot, T. S., Dante, Vol. 5 Emerson, Nature, Vol. 10 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Mill, J. S., Nature, Vol. 10 Singer, Spinoza of Market Street, Vol. 3 Tolstoy, Three Hermits, Vol. 3 For Aquinas’ Summa Theologica in Great Books of the Western World, see Vols. 17–18 SHERWOOD ANDERSON, 1876–1941 I’m a Fool Vol. 2, pages 511–520 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CUSTOM AND CONVENTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5b: The effect of custom on the training and character of men Topic 7d: The influence of custom on the liberty of the individual: the force of discipline DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b: The objects of desire: the good and the pleasant

101 Topic 2c: Desire as a cause of action: motivation, purpose, ambi- tion; voluntariness HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(5): The importance of friendship and love for happiness TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8c: Truth and falsehood in relation to love and friendship: the pleasant and the unpleasant truth RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Symposium Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of giving the lie Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Much Ado About Nothing; As You Like It Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. II Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chap. 10 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Apuleius, “Cupid and Psyche,” Vol. 3 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 Dostoevsky, White Nights, Vol. 3 Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Plutarch, Of Bashfulness, Vol. 7 Turgenev, First Love, Vol. 3 ANONYMOUS, c. early 13th century Aucassin and Nicolette Vol. 2, pages 523–551 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ETERNITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4d: The eternity of Heaven and Hell: everlasting life and death Topic 5: The knowledge and imagery of eternity LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1e: The intensity and power of love: its increase or de- crease; its constructive or destructive force Topic 2c: Romantic, chivalric, and courtly love: the idealization and supremacy of the beloved ADAM S, AN DE RSON, AN ONYMOU S

Syntopical Guide102 POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1: The nature of poetry: its distinction from other arts Topic 6a: The expression of emotion in poetry Topic 7d: Spectacle and song in drama RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plotinus, Vol. 11, Third Ennead, Seventh Tractate Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Paradiso, Canto II Chaucer, Vol. 19, Troilus and Criseyde, Bk. II Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Romeo and Juliet Milton, Vol. 29, Psalm LXXXVII; Paradise Lost, Bk. III Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. IV–VI Joyce, Vol. 59, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Apuleius, “Cupid and Psyche,” Vol. 3 Bacon, Of Love, Vol. 10 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Chekhov, Darling, Vol. 3; Cherry Orchard, Vol. 4 Dostoevsky, White Nights, Vol. 3 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Hazlitt, On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth, Vol. 10 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Turgenev, First Love, Vol. 3 LUCIUS APULEIUS, fl. 2nd century A.D. “Cupid and Psyche” from The Golden Ass Vol. 3, pages 197–212 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: Beauty in relation to desire and love, as object or cause Topic 4: Beauty and ugliness in relation to pleasure and pain or good and evil GOD, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: The nature and existence of the gods Topic 1c: The intervention of the gods in the affairs of men: their judgment of the deserts of men

103 LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1d: The aims and objects of love Topic 1e: The intensity and power of love: its increase or de- crease; its constructive or destructive force RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Cratylus; Symposium Virgil, Vol. 12, Aeneid, Bk. IV Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto V Chaucer, Vol. 19, Troilus and Criseyde Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Romeo and Juliet Freud, Vol. 54, On Narcissism; The Ego and the Id Mann, Vol. 59, Death in Venice RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Bacon, Of Beauty, Vol. 5; Of Love, Vol. 10 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Dostoevsky, White Nights, Vol. 3 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Turgenev, First Love, Vol. 3 MATTHEW ARNOLD, 1822–1888 The Study of Poetry Vol. 5, pages 19–41 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: The origin and development of poetry: the materials of myth and legend Topic 5b: Poetry contrasted with history and philosophy: the dispraise and defense of the poet Topic 8a(2): Poetic truth: verisimilitude or plausibility; the possi- ble, the probable, and the necessary TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4b: Truth in science and poetry: the truth of fact and the truth of fiction AN ONYM OU S, AP U LE I U S, AR NO LD

Syntopical Guide104 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of books Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part One, Chaps. 32, 47–50 Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Part I Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I, Bk. II James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXI Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan, Preface RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Beauty, Vol. 5; Of Truth, Vol. 10 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Eliot, T. S., Dante; Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Hazlitt, My First Acquaintance with Poets; Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen, Vol. 5 Johnson, Preface to Shakespeare, Vol. 5 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 Santayana, Lucretius; Goethe’s Faust, Vol. 10 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Style, Vol. 5 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 Whitman, Preface to Leaves of Grass, Vol. 5 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5 Sweetness and Light Vol. 5, pages 42–61 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: The beautiful and the good: beauty as a kind of fitness or order PROGRESS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Optimism or meliorism: the doctrine of human perfectibility Topic 6: Intellectual or cultural progress: its sources and impediments; the analogy of cultural progress to biologi- cal evolution VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4d(4): The influence on moral character of poetry, music, and other arts: the guidance of history and example

105 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Symposium Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part One, Chaps. 47–50 Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, First Part Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I, Bk. II Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. VIII–X RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Beauty, Vol. 5 Chekhov, Darling, Vol. 3 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Epictetus, Enchiridion, Vol. 10 Erskine, Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Hume, Of the Standard of Taste, Vol. 5 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 Tolstoy, What Men Live By, Vol. 3 Voltaire, “English Men and Ideas,” Vol. 7 Whitman, Preface to Leaves of Grass, Vol. 5 SIR FRANCIS BACON, 1561–1626 Of Beauty Vol. 5, page 94 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: The beautiful and the good: beauty as a kind of fitness or order Topic 1c: The elements of beauty: unity, proportion, clarity TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1c: The relation of truth, goodness, and beauty RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Phaedrus Plotinus, Vol. 11, First Ennead, Sixth Tractate Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, First Part, Q 5, Art. 4; Part I– II, Q 27, Art. 1 ARNOLD, BACON

Syntopical Guide106 Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. I Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I, Bk. I Joyce, Vol. 59, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Apuleius, “Cupid and Psyche,” Vol. 3 Arnold, Study of Poetry; Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 De Quincey, On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth, Vol. 5 Fabre, Laboratory of the Open Fields, Vol. 8 Hume, Of the Standard of Taste, Vol. 5 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Schopenhauer, On the Comparative Place of Interest and Beauty in Works of Art, Vol. 5 Of Discourse Vol. 5, pages 95–96 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DIALECTIC, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(2): The technique of question and answer OPINION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c: Reasoning and argument concerning matters of opinion: comparison of demonstration and persuasion, principles and assumptions, axioms and postulates RHETORIC, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: The devices of rhetoric: figures of speech; the extension and contraction of discourse RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. VI–VII Aristotle, Vol. 7, Topics, Bk. VIII; Vol. 8, Rhetoric, Bk. I, Chaps. 1–2; Bk. II, Chaps. 18–26 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the art of discussion Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, On Liberty, Chap. 2 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Dewey, “Process of Thought,” Vol. 10 Dickens, “Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick,” Vol. 2 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Tolstoy, Three Hermits, Vol. 3 Voltaire, “Philosophy of Common Sense,” Vol. 10

107 Of Studies Vol. 5, pages 97–98 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5c: The nature of learning: its several modes MIND, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1a(3): The functioning of intellect: the acts of understand- ing, judgment, and reasoning RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. VI–VII Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, First Part, Q 85, Art. 1–Q 87, Art. 3 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of books Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, First Book Descartes, Vol. 28, Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rules VIII–XII; Discourse on Method, Part I Dewey, Vol. 55, Experience and Education RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Erskine, Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Franklin, Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania, Vol. 6 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Saint-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Some Forms of Literature, Vol. 5; On Education, Vol. 7 Tolstoy, Three Hermits, Vol. 3 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5 Of Youth and Age Vol. 7, pages 3–4 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon FAMILY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c: The condition of immaturity Topic 6e: The initiation of children into adult life MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6c: The ages of man: infancy, youth, maturity, senescence; generational conflict RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. I, VI, VII B A C O N

Syntopical Guide108 Aristotle, Vol. 7, On the Soul, Bk. I, Chap. 4; Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. I, Chap. 4; Bk. VI, Chap. 8; Politics, Bk. VII, Chap. 13; Bk. VIII, Chap. 7; Rhetoric, Bk. II, Chaps. 12–16 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of age; All things have their season; On some verses of Virgil Shakespeare, Vol. 24, As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII; Vol. 25, King Lear, especially Act I, Scene I Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part III, Chap. X Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40; Federalist, No. 79 Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Twain, Vol. 48, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 8, Chaps. II–IV; Bk. 13, Chap. XVII Ibsen, Vol. 52, Wild Duck James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chaps. XI, XV, XXIV RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Hazlitt, On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth, Vol. 10 Lamb, Dream Children, Vol. 5 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Plutarch, Of Bashfulness, Vol. 7; Contentment, Vol. 10 Singer, Spinoza of Market Street, Vol. 3 Swift, Resolutions When I Come to be Old, Vol. 7 Turgenev, First Love, Vol. 3 Of Parents and Children Of Marriage and Single Life Vol. 7, pages 5–8 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon FAMILY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4: The institution of marriage: its nature and purpose Topic 4c: Matrimony and celibacy Topic 6: Parents and children: fatherhood, motherhood Topic 6a: The desire for offspring: the birthrate Topic 7c: Patterns of friendship in the extended family Topic 8: Historical observations on the institution of marriage and the family LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(4): Patterns of love and friendship in the family Topic 2d: Conjugal love: its sexual, fraternal, and romantic components

109 VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4d(1): The influence of parental authority on the formation of character RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. V Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. VIII, Chaps. 7–14; Politics, Bk. VII, Chaps. 16–17 Chaucer, Vol. 19, Canterbury Tales, Wife of Bath’s Prologue; Mer- chant’s Prologue; Epilogue to the Merchant’s Tale Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I, Chaps. 1–11; Bk. II, Chap. 8; Bk. III, Chaps. 9–49; Bk. IV, Chap. 9 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the affection of fathers for their children; On some verses of Virgil Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Henry IV, First Part, Act III, Scene II; Vol. 25, King Lear Molière, Vol. 31, School for Wives Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chap. VI Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 3, Chaps. I–VI; First Epilogue, Chaps. V–XVI Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part I, Bk. I; Bk. II, Chap. 6; Bk. III, Chap. 9; Part II, Bk. IV, Chap. 2; Part III, Bk. VIII, Chap. 4; Part IV, Bk. XI, Chaps. 7–8; Bk. XII Freud, Vol. 54, New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis, Lec- ture 33 Woolf, Vol. 60, To the Lighthouse RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Chekhov, Darling, Vol. 3 Dickens, “Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick,” Vol. 2 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Molière, Doctor in Spite of Himself, Vol. 4 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Turgenev, First Love, Vol. 3 Of Great Place Vol. 7, pages 9–11 B A C O N

Syntopical Guide110 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: Honor and fame in the life of the individual Topic 2b: Honor as an object of desire and as a factor in virtue and happiness: flattery, imitation, or emulation Topic 3: The social realization of honor and fame Topic 3b: The conditions of honor or fame and the causes of dishonor or infamy Topic 5a: Honor as a motivation of heroism STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8: The functions of the statesman, king, or prince Topic 8b: The qualities or virtues necessary for the good states- man or king Topic 8e: The advantages and disadvantages of participation in political life VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7d: The virtues which constitute the good or successful ruler: the vices associated with the possession of power RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Seventh Letter Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. IV, Chap. 4 Epictetus, Vol. 11, Discourses, Bk. I, Chaps. 19, 21 Aurelius, Vol. 11, Meditations, Bk. I Machiavelli, Vol. 21, Prince, Chaps. XV–XXV Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of glory; Of the disadvantage of greatness Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Richard II; King Henry IV, First Part; King Henry V, Act IV, Scene I; Julius Caesar, Act III, Scene II Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 3, Chap. XIX; Bk. 6, Chaps. IV–VI, XVIII; Bk. 9, Chap. I; First Epilogue, Chaps. I–IV Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. IV RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 James, W., Great Men and Their Environment, Vol. 7 La Bruyère, Characters, Vol. 6 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Macaulay, Machiavelli, Vol. 7 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Shaw, Man of Destiny, Vol. 4 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Washington, Farewell Address, Vol. 6

111 Of Seditions and Troubles Vol. 7, pages 12–17 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ARISTOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The causes of degeneration or instability in aristocracies: aristocracy and revolution CONSTITUTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7: The preservation of constitutions: factors tending toward their dissolution OLIGARCHY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The instability of oligarchic government REVOLUTION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: The definition of treason or sedition: the revolutionist as a treasonable conspirator Topic 3b: Ways of retaining power: the suppression and subver- sion of revolutions by tyrants, despots, and totalitarian states RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Thucydides, Vol. 5, History of the Peloponnesian War, Bk. III, Chap. IX Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. VIII–IX Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. V Machiavelli, Vol. 21, Prince, Chaps. VIII, XXVI Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part II, Chaps. 29–30 Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Richard II; Julius Caesar; Vol. 25, Coriolanus Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chaps. XVI–XIX Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 9–10 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part II, Chap. 10 Marx and Engels, Vol. 50, Manifesto of the Communist Party Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, First Epilogue, Chap. XIV Orwell, Vol. 60, Animal Farm RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Burke, Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol, Vol. 7 Hugo, “Battle with the Cannon,” Vol. 2 Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute; First Inaugural Address; Letter to Horace Greeley; Gettysburg Address, Vol. 6 Macaulay, Machiavelli, Vol. 7 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Paine, “Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776,” Vol. 6 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Thoreau, Plea for Captain John Brown, Vol. 6 B A C O N

Syntopical Guide112 Washington, Circular Letter to the Governors of All the States on Dis- banding the Army; Farewell Address, Vol. 6 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Of Custom and Education Vol. 7, pages 18–19 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CUSTOM AND CONVENTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: The origin, development, and transmission of customs Topic 5b: The effect of custom on the training and character of men Topic 7d: The influence of custom on the liberty of the individual: the force of discipline Topic 8: Custom in relation to order and progress: the factors of tradition and invention EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4c: The role of the state in moral education: law, custom, public opinion GOOD AND EVIL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6d: The possibility of moral knowledge: the subjectivity or conventionality of judgments of good and evil HABIT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6: The force of habit in human life Topic 7: The social significance of habit: habit in relation to law LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5f: The relation of positive law to custom VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4d(3): The guidance of laws and customs: the limits of positive law with respect to commanding virtue and prohibiting vice RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. II–III Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. II, Chaps. 1–4; Bk. X, Chap. 9; Politics, Bk. VII, Chap. 13–Bk. VIII, Chap. 7 Augustine, Vol. 16, Confessions, Bk. I Aquinas, Vol. 18, Summa Theologica, Part I–II, Q 97, Art. 3 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of custom; Of cannibals; Of practice; Of cruelty; Of virtue Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Parts I, II, III Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part I, Appendix Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, On Liberty, Chap. 3

113 Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Part Five Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part I, Chap. 2 James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. IV Freud, Vol. 54, Civilization and Its Discontents, Chap. VIII Dewey, Vol. 55, Experience and Education RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 Faraday, Observations on Mental Education, Vol. 7 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 Swift, Essay on Modern Education, Vol. 7 Twain, “Learning the River,” Vol. 6 Of Followers and Friends Vol. 7, pages 20–21 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4c: Honor as a political technique: the uses of praise, pres- tige, public opinion JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 9e: The just distribution of honors, ranks, offices, suffrage LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(3): The types of friendship: friendships based on utility, pleasure, or virtue RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Lysis Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. VIII, Chaps. 2–8; Bk. VIII, Chap. 13 Machiavelli, Vol. 21, Prince, Chaps. XVII, XXI–XXII Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of honorary awards Shakespeare, Vol. 25, King Lear, Act III Gibbon, Vol. 38, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Chap. LIII Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. VII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Cicero, On Friendship, Vol. 10 La Bruyère, Characters, Vol. 6 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol 2 Molière, Misanthrope, Vol. 4 Sheridan, School for Scandal, Vol. 4 B A C O N

Syntopical Guide114 Of Usury Vol. 7, pages 22–24 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8d: Justice and the use of money: usury and interest rates WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5e: The rate of interest on money: factors that determine the rate of interest; the effect of interest rates on the economy; the condemnation of usury Topic 6d(1): The distinction of profit from rent, interest, and wages RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. I, Chaps. 9–10 Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Merchant of Venice, Act I, Scene III Pascal, Vol. 30, Provincial Letters, Letter VIII Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. I, Chap. IX Marx, Vol. 50, Capital, Part VIII, Chap. XXXI Keynes, Vol. 57, General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money, Chaps. 13–14, 23 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Hume, Of Money, Vol. 7 Of Riches Vol. 7, pages 25–27 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(1): The contribution of the goods of fortune to happi- ness: wealth, health, longevity JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8d: Justice and the use of money: usury and interest rates NATURE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5b: Natural inclinations and natural needs with respect to property and wealth NECESSITY AND CONTINGENCY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5e: Economic necessities or luxuries VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6c: The relation of virtue to wealth: the religious basis of economic behavior; the work ethic WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 10: The moral aspects of wealth and poverty

115 Topic 10a: The nature of wealth as a good: its place in the order of goods and its relation to happiness Topic 10c: Temperance and intemperance with respect to wealth: liberality, magnificence, miserliness, avarice; the corrupting influence of excessive wealth RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristophanes, Vol. 4, Wealth Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. IV, Chaps. 1–2; Politics, Bk. I, Chaps. 9–12 Montaigne, Vol. 23, That the taste of good and evil depends in large part on the opinion we have of them Pascal, Vol. 30, Provincial Letters, Letter XII Molière, Vol. 31, Miser Dickens, Vol. 47, Little Dorrit, Bk. I, Chaps. 33–36; Bk. II, Chap. 13 Marx and Engels, Vol. 50, Manifesto of the Communist Party, Chap. II Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Book 14, Chap. XII Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part II, Bk. V, Chap. 5; Bk. VI, Chap. 3 Veblen, Vol. 57, Theory of the Leisure Class, Chaps. 1–7 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Fitzgerald, Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Vol. 3 Hume, Of Money, Vol. 7 La Bruyère, Characters, Vol. 6 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 Twain, Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, Vol. 2 The Sphinx Vol. 8, pages 2–4 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: Man’s natural desire and power to know Topic 8: The use and value of knowledge MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The sciences of human nature: anthropology and psychology; ethnography and ethnology; rational and empirical psychology; experimental and clini- cal psychology Topic 10c: Man as an integral part of the universe: his station in the cosmos REASONING, Vol. 2, especially B A C O N

Syntopical Guide116 Topic 5b: Scientific reasoning: the theory of demonstration SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Science as the discipline of experimental inquiry and the organization of experimental knowledge: the sci- entific spirit Topic 3: The relation of science to action and production Topic 4: The nature of scientific knowledge Topic 7: The evaluation of science RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Oedipus the King Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Part VI Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. V Lévi-Strauss, Vol. 58, Structural Anthropology, Introduction; Chap. XVII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Campbell, Measurement, Vol. 9 Emerson, Nature, Vol. 10 Guizot, “Civilization” Vol. 6 Mill, J. S., Nature, Vol. 10 Tyndall, “Michael Faraday,” Vol. 8 Of Truth Vol. 10, pages 346–347 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4b: Truth in science and poetry: the truth of fact and the truth of fiction Topic 8a: Prevarication and perjury: the injustice of lying or bearing false witness Topic 8e: The love of truth and the duty to seek it: the moral distinction between the sophist and the philosopher; martyrdom to the truth RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Protagoras Aristotle, Vol. 7, Metaphysics, Bk. IV, Chaps. 4–8; Vol. 8, On Poetics, Chaps. 24–26 Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, First Part, Q 16 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of liars; It is folly to measure the true and false by our own capacity; Of giving the lie; Of the useful and the honorable Pascal, Vol. 30, Provincial Letters, Letter XV

117 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Arnold, Study of Poetry, Vol. 5 Campanella, “Arguments for and against Galileo,” Vol. 8 Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Emerson, Montaigne; or, the Skeptic, Vol. 10 James, W., Will to Believe, Vol. 10 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 Sheridan, School for Scandal, Vol. 4 Twain, Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, Vol. 2 Voltaire, “Philosophy of Common Sense,” Vol. 10 Of Death Vol. 10, pages 348–349 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon IMMORTALITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The desire for immortality: the fear of death LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7: The causes and occurrence of death: the transition from life to death; homicide Topic 8d: The fear of death: the attitude of the hero, the philoso- pher, the poet, the martyr RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Oedipus at Colonus; Antigone Plato, Vol. 6, Apology; Crito; Phaedo Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. III, Chaps. 6–9 Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bk. III Augustine, Vol. 16, Confessions, Bk. IX Montaigne, Vol. 23, That to philosophize is to learn to die; That the taste of good and evil depends in large part on the opinion we have of them; A custom of the island of Cea; Apology for Raymond Sebond Shakespeare, Vol. 25, Hamlet; Measure for Measure Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part V, Props. 38–40 Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One; Part Two, Act V Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 12, Chap. XVI Freud, Vol. 54, Thoughts for the Times on War and Death Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chap. XI Hemingway, Vol. 60, Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Browne, “Immortality,” Vol. 10 Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 B A C O N

Syntopical Guide118 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Crane, Open Boat, Vol. 3 Epictetus, Enchiridion, Vol. 10 Epicurus, Letter to Menoeceus, Vol. 10 Hazlitt, On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth, Vol. 10 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Pliny, “Eruption of Vesuvius,” Vol. 6 Poe, Masque of the Red Death, Vol. 2 Santayana, Lucretius, Vol. 10 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Tolstoy, Death of Ivan Ilyitch, Vol. 3 Whitman, Preface to Leaves of Grass, Vol. 5; Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Of Adversity Vol. 10, page 350 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon OPPOSITION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5d: Opposition or strife as a productive principle or source of progress PLEASURE AND PAIN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8a: Pleasure and pain in relation to virtue: the restraints of temperance and the endurance of courage RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Augustine, Vol. 16, City of God, Bk. V, Chaps. 11–26 Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part IV, Props. 46–73 Milton, Vol. 29, Areopagitica Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Second Part Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part Two, Act V Eliot, G., Vol. 46, Middlemarch Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 13, Chap. XII; Bk. 14, Chap. XII; Bk. 15, Chaps. XII–XIII Brecht, Vol. 60, Mother Courage and Her Children RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Crane, Open Boat, Vol. 3 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Emerson, Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Gogol, Overcoat, Vol. 2 Hugo, “Battle with the Cannon,” Vol. 2

119 Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 James, W., Energies of Men, Vol. 7 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Xenophon, “March to the Sea,” Vol. 6 Of Love Vol. 10, pages 351–352 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1e: The intensity and power of love: its increase or de- crease; its constructive or destructive force Topic 2a: Erotic love as distinct from lust or sexual desire Topic 2b: Friendly, tender, or altruistic love: fraternal love RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Phaedrus; Symposium Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bks. VIII–IX Augustine, Vol. 16, Confessions, Bk. VIII Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Purgatorio, Cantos XVI–XVII Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Much Ado About Nothing; As You Like It; Vol. 25, Othello Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part III, Props. 15–50, 59 Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 6, Chaps. II, XVI–XVII, XIX, XXI– XXIV; Bk. 8, Chaps. X–XXII; Bk. 10, Chaps. XXXVI–XXXVII; Bk. 11, Chaps. XXXI–XXXII; Bk. 12, Chaps. XIV–XVI Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part II, Bk. VI; Part III, Bk. VII, Chap. 4 Freud, Vol. 54, Civilization and Its Discontents Proust, Vol. 59, Swann in Love Cather, Vol. 59, Lost Lady Mann, Vol. 59, Death in Venice RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Apuleius, “Cupid and Psyche,” Vol. 3 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Chekhov, Darling, Vol. 3 Cicero, On Friendship, Vol. 10 B A C O N

Syntopical Guide120 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Dostoevsky, White Nights, Vol. 3 Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Molière, Misanthrope, Vol. 4 Sheridan, School for Scandal, Vol. 4 Singer, Spinoza of Market Street, Vol. 3 Tolstoy, What Men Live By, Vol. 3 Turgenev, First Love, Vol. 3 Wilde, Happy Prince, Vol. 2 Of Friendship Vol. 10, pages 353–358 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2e: Honor as the pledge of friendship: the codes of honor among social equals LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b: Friendly, tender, or altruistic love: fraternal love Topic 3a: Friendship and love in relation to virtue and happiness Topic 3d: The heroism of friendship and the sacrifices of love TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8c: Truth and falsehood in relation to love and friendship: the pleasant and the unpleasant truth RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad, Bks. XVI–XVIII, XXIII Plato, Vol. 6, Lysis Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bks. VIII–IX Augustine, Vol. 16, Confessions, Bk. VII Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of friendship Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part IV, Props. 70–73; Appendix I–XVII Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chaps. 3–4, 10 Twain, Vol. 48, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chaps. 32–43 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 12, Chap. XIII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Cicero, On Friendship, Vol. 10 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 La Bruyère, Characters, Vol. 6 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2

121 Molière, Misanthrope, Vol. 4 Scott, Two Drovers, Vol. 2 Wilde, Happy Prince, Vol. 2 Of Anger Vol. 10, pages 359–360 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EMOTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2a: Definitions of particular passions Topic 2b: The order and connection of the passions SIN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c(1): The classification and order of mortal sins RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad, Bks. I, XVIII–XXIV Sophocles, Vol. 4, Ajax Plato, Vol. 6, Euthyphro Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. II, Chaps. 5–9; Rhetoric, Bk. II, Chaps. 2–4 Plotinus, Vol. 11, Fourth Ennead, Fourth Tractate Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto VII; Purgatorio, Canto XVI Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part I, Chap. 6 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of anger Shakespeare, Vol. 25, King Lear; Timon of Athens Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part IV, Props. 34–37, 45–46 Milton, Vol. 29, Paradise Lost, Bk. I Locke, Vol. 33, Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Bk. II, Chap. XX James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXIV RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Poe, Tell-Tale Heart, Vol. 2 Scott, Two Drovers, Vol. 2 For other works by Bacon in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 28 HONORÉ DE BALZAC, 1799–1850 A Passion in the Desert Vol. 3, pages 436–447 BACON, BALZAC

Syntopical Guide122 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a(1): Animal sensitivity: its degrees and differentiations Topic 1c(2): Comparison of animal with human intelligence Topic 12a: The taming of animals: domestic breeds Topic 13: The attribution of human qualities or virtues to animals: personification in allegory and satire; the transforma- tion of humans into animals EMOTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1c: Instinctive emotional reactions in animals and men Topic 5b: The acquisition and retention of power: love or fear SIGN AND SYMBOL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1c: The things of nature functioning symbolically: the book of nature Topic 3a: Verbal ambiguity: indefiniteness or multiplicity of meaning RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Odyssey, Bk. XVII Aristotle, Vol. 8, History of Animals, Bk. IX, Chaps. 1, 44; Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. VI, Chap. 7 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of cruelty; Apology for Raymond Sebond Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part IV Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chaps. 132–135 Darwin, Vol. 49, Descent of Man, Part I, Chaps. III–IV Conrad, Vol. 59, Heart of Darkness Kafka, Vol. 60, Metamorphosis RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Apuleius, “Cupid and Psyche,” Vol. 3 Bacon, Sphinx, Vol. 8; Of Love, Vol. 10 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Huxley, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, Vol. 8 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 For Balzac’s Cousin Bette in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 45

123 CLAUDE BERNARD, 1813–1878 Experimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies Vol. 8, pages 266–290 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1e: The conception of the animal as a machine or automaton CAUSE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: Comparison of causes in animate and inanimate nature Topic 5b: Cause in philosophical and scientific method: the role of causes in definition, demonstration, experiment, hypothesis EXPERIENCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The theory of experimentation in scientific method HYPOTHESIS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4: The role of hypotheses in science LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: Continuity or discontinuity between living and nonliving things: comparison of vital powers and activities with the potentialities and motions of inert bodies MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4c: The mechanistic versus the organismic account of nature MEDICINE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: The scientific foundations of the art of medicine: the contrast between the empiric and the artist in medicine RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Hippocrates, Vol. 9, Oath; On Ancient Medicine Galen, Vol. 9, On the Natural Faculties, Bk. I Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Part V Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Preface, Bk. III James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. V Freud, Vol. 54, New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis, Lec- ture 35 Poincaré, Vol. 56, Science and Hypothesis, Part IV Schrödinger, Vol. 56, What Is Life? Waddington, Vol. 56, Nature of Life BALZAC, B E R NA R D

Syntopical Guide124 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Fabre, Laboratory of the Open Fields; Sacred Beetle, Vol. 8 Huxley, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, Vol. 8 Pavlov, Scientific Study of the So-Called Psychical Processes in the Higher Animals, Vol. 8 Wöhler, On the Artificial Production of Urea, Vol. 8 KEES BOEKE, 1884–1966 Cosmic View Vol. 8, pages 600–644 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ELEMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: Element and atom: qualitative and quantitative indivisibility INFINITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3d: The infinite extent of space or space as finite yet unbounded Topic 4b: The infinite divisibility of matter: the issue concerning atoms or elementary particles MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5a: The art of measurement QUANTITY, Vol. 2 WORLD, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: The universe and man: macrocosm and microcosm Topic 5: The number of worlds: the uniqueness of this world; the possibility or actuality of other worlds Topic 7: The space of the world: astronomical theories con- cerning the size or extent of the universe; the universe as finite yet unbounded; the universe as expanding or contracting RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Protagoras; Timaeus Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. II; On Geometrical Demonstration Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy Faraday, Vol. 42, Experimental Researches in Electricity Eddington, Vol. 56, Expanding Universe RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Campbell, Measurement, Vol. 9

125 Epicurus, Letter to Herodotus, Vol. 10 Galileo, Starry Messenger, Vol. 8 Haldane, On Being the Right Size, Vol. 8 Kasner and Newman, New Names for Old; Beyond the Googol, Vol. 9 Santayana, Lucretius, Vol. 10 Voltaire, Micromégas, Vol. 2; “English Men and Ideas,” Vol. 7 SIR THOMAS BROWNE, 1605–1682 “Immortality” from Urn-Burial Vol. 10, pages 575–580 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon IMMORTALITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The desire for immortality: the fear of death Topic 6b: Enduring fame: survival in the memory LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8e: The ceremonials of death: the rites of burial in war and peace RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad, Bk. XXIV Aeschylus, Vol. 4, Libation Bearers Sophocles, Vol. 4, Antigone Euripides, Vol. 4, Alcestis Herodotus, Vol. 5, History, Ninth Book Plato, Vol. 6, Symposium; Phaedo Montaigne, Vol. 23, That to philosophize is to learn to die; Apology for Raymond Sebond Shakespeare, Vol. 25, Hamlet; Winter’s Tale Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, First Book Frazer, Vol. 58, Golden Bough, Chap. LXVII, Part 4 Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chap. XI Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan, Epilogue RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Death, Vol. 10 Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Hazlitt, On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth, Vol. 10 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 B E R NA R D, B O E K E, B ROWN E

Syntopical Guide126 Poe, Masque of the Red Death, Vol. 2 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Tolstoy, Death of Ivan Ilyitch, Vol. 3 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 IVAN BUNIN, 1870–1953 The Gentleman from San Francisco Vol. 3, pages 102–123 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(1): The contribution of the goods of fortune to happi- ness: wealth, health, longevity Topic 4b: The attainability of happiness: the fear of death and the tragic view of human life Topic 5a: The happiness of the individual in relation to the happi- ness or good of other men OPPOSITION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4e: Conflict in human life: opposed types of men and modes of life Topic 5b: The class war: the opposition of the rich and the poor, the propertied and the propertyless, capital and labor, producers and consumers WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 10a: The nature of wealth as a good: its place in the order of goods and its relation to happiness Topic 10c: Temperance and intemperance with respect to wealth: liberality, magnificence, miserliness, avarice; the corrupting influence of excessive wealth RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. I Tacitus, Vol. 14, Annals, Bks. II, III Molière, Vol. 31, Miser Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One; Part Two, Act I Dickens, Vol. 47, Little Dorrit Marx, Vol. 50, Capital, Part II, Chap. IV; Part VII, Chap. XXIV; Marx and Engels, Manifesto of the Communist Party, Chap. II Fitzgerald, Vol. 60, Great Gatsby RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2

127 Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Bacon, Of Riches, Vol. 7 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Fitzgerald, Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Vol. 3 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Hume, Of Money, Vol. 7 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Tolstoy, What Men Live By, Vol. 3 Twain, Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, Vol. 2 EDMUND BURKE, 1729–1797 Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol Vol. 7, pages 237–271 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon GOVERNMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5b: The government of dependencies: colonial government; the government of conquered peoples JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c: The inalienability of natural rights: their violation by tyranny and despotism Topic 9b: Justice as the moral principle of political organization: the bond of men in states LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7d: Tyranny and treason or sedition as illegal acts: the use of force without authority LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c: The struggle for sovereign independence against the yoke of imperialism or colonial subjugation REVOLUTION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6a: The right of rebellion: the circumstances justifying civil disobedience or violent insurrection Topic 7: Empire and revolution: the justification of colonial rebel- lion and the defense of imperialism WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4b: The factors responsible for civil strife B ROW N E, B U N I N, B U R K E

Syntopical Guide128 Topic 11b: Justice and fraternity as principles of peace among men RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Thucydides, Vol. 5, History of the Peloponnesian War, Third Book, Chap. IX Machiavelli, Vol. 21, Prince, Chaps. IV–IX Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. IV, Chap. VII Kant, Vol. 39, Science of Right, Second Part Constitution of the United States of America, Vol. 40, Art. I, Sect. 9; Art. III, Sect. 3; Amendments I–X Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, No. 84 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chaps. 17–18 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part II, Chaps. 7–10 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Seditions and Troubles, Vol. 7 Calhoun, “Concurrent Majority,” Vol. 7 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Great Documents, Virginia Declaration of Rights; Declaration of Inde- pendence; Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen, Vol. 6 Jefferson, “Virginia Constitution”; First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Lincoln, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Paine, “A Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776,” Vol. 6 Washington, Farewell Address, Vol. 6 JOHN BAGNELL BURY, 1861–1927 Herodotus Vol. 6, pages 364–383 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CUSTOM AND CONVENTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The conflict of customs: their variation from place to place HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: History as knowledge and as literature: its kinds and divisions; its distinction from poetry, myth, philosophy, and science Topic 3: The writing of history: research and narration; the influ- ence of poetry

129 Topic 4a(2): Material forces in history: economic, physical, and geographic factors Topic 5a: The relation of the gods or God to human history: the dispensations of providence TIME, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8: Historical time RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad, Bks. I–II Aeschylus, Vol. 4, Prometheus Bound; Agamemnon; Eumenides Thucydides, Vol. 5, History of the Peloponnesian War, First Book, Chap. I Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics, Chap. 9 Plutarch, Vol. 13, Pericles Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Gibbon, Vol. 37, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Chaps. IX–X, XXVI; Vol. 38, Chap. XLVIII Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Extracts; Chaps. 45, 55–57, 82–83 Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chap. I Lévi-Strauss, Vol. 58, Structural Anthropology, Introduction RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Hume, Of the Study of History, Vol. 7 Lucian, Way to Write History, Vol. 6 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 For Herodotus’ History in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 5 SAMUEL BUTLER, 1835–1902 “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians” from Erewhon Vol. 2, pages 483–506 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CUSTOM AND CONVENTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The conflict of customs: their variation from place to place Topic 6b: The force of custom with respect to law Topic 7d: The influence of custom on the liberty of the individual: the force of discipline JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially B U R K E, B U RY, B UTLE R

Syntopical Guide130 Topic 1f: Justice as a custom or moral sentiment based on consid- erations of utility Topic 9c: The criteria of justice in various forms of government and diverse constitutions LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5f: The relation of positive law to custom Topic 6e(1): The nature and causes of crime Topic 6e(3): The punishment of crime RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristophanes, Vol. 4, Wasps Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. V, Chaps. 1–2, 6–8 Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I, Chaps. 52–57 Bacon, Vol. 28, New Atlantis Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Custom and Education, Vol. 7; Of Death, Vol. 10 Dickens, “Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick,” Vol. 2 Great Documents, Declaration of Independence; Universal Declaration of Human Rights, Vol. 6 Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 Molière, Misanthrope; Doctor in Spite of Himself, Vol. 4 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 Sheridan, School for Scandal, Vol. 4 Thoreau, Civil Disobedience, Vol. 6 Twain, Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, Vol. 2 JOHN C. CALHOUN, 1782–1850 “The Concurrent Majority” from A Disquisition on Government Vol. 7, pages 276–290 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CONSTITUTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 9b: Types of representation: diverse methods of selecting representatives DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2a: The tyranny of the majority: lawless mob rule

131 Topic 5b(1): Majority rule and minority or proportional representation Topic 5c: The distribution of functions and powers: checks and balances in representative democracy; the uses of patronage GOVERNMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: The origin and necessity of government: the issue concerning anarchy Topic 1h: Self-government: expressions of the popular will; elec- tions; voting RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bk. VI Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. I, Chap. 2; Bk. III, Chaps. 1–5 Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part I, Chaps. 13–14 Rousseau, Vol. 35, Social Contract, Bk. IV, Chaps. 4–7 Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. IV, Chap. VII Constitution of the United States of America, Vol. 40 Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 41–51, 85 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chaps. 6–7 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part I, Chaps. 5–8; Part II, Chap. 7 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Second Epilogue, Chaps. IV–V Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. IV RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Burke, Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol, Vol. 7 Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 Jefferson, “Virginia Constitution,” Vol. 6 Lincoln, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Thoreau, Civil Disobedience, Vol. 6 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Washington, Farewell Address, Vol. 6 TOMMASO CAMPANELLA, 1568–1639 “Arguments for and against Galileo” from The Defenses of Galileo Vol. 8, pages 359–364 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ASTRONOMY AND COSMOLOGY, Vol. 1, especially B UTLE R, CALH O U N, CAM PAN E LLA

Syntopical Guide132 Topic 4: Astronomy, cosmology, and theology: astronomy as affecting views of God, creation, the divine plan, and the moral hierarchy Topic 11: Astronomy as the study of the universe as a whole: cosmology Topic 13: The history of astronomy SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Science as the discipline of experimental inquiry and the organization of experimental knowledge: the sci- entific spirit Topic 2a: The relation between science and religion: the concep- tion of sacred theology as a science Topic 6b: The place of science in society: the social conditions favorable to the advancement of science RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, On the Heavens Ptolemy, Vol. 15, Almagest, Bk. I Copernicus, Vol. 15, On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres, Intro- duction–Bk. I Kepler, Vol. 15, Epitome of Copernican Astronomy, Bk. IV Galileo, Vol. 26, Dialogues Concerning the Two New Sciences Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Parts V–VI Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chaps. I, IX, XII Eddington, Vol. 56, Expanding Universe Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. V RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Truth, Vol. 10 Galileo, Starry Messenger, Vol. 8 Voltaire, “English Men and Ideas,” Vol. 7 For Galileo’s Dialogues Concerning the Two New Sciences in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 26 NORMAN ROBERT CAMPBELL, 1880–1949 Measurement Vol. 9, pages 204–221 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The being of mathematical objects: their real, ideal, or mental existence

133 Topic 5a: The art of measurement MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3a: Number and the continuum: the theory of measure- ment; Euclidean and non-Euclidean continua QUANTITY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6b: Mathematical procedures in measurement: superposi- tion, congruence; ratio and proportion; parameters and coordinates Topic 6c: Physical procedures in measurement: experiment and observation; clocks, rules, balances RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. VII Euclid, Vol. 10, Elements, Bk. V Nicomachus, Vol. 10, Introduction to Arithmetic, Bk. I Berkeley, Vol. 33, Principles of Human Knowledge Einstein, Vol. 56, Relativity: The Special and the General Theory Bohr, Vol. 56, Discussion with Einstein on Epistemological Problems in Atomic Physics RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Sphinx, Vol. 8 Boeke, Cosmic View, Vol. 8 Dantzig, Fingerprints; Empty Column, Vol. 9 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Kasner and Newman, New Names for Old; Beyond the Googol, Vol. 9 Russell, Definition of Number, Vol. 9 Voltaire, Micromégas, Vol. 2 Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science Vol. 9, pages 222–238 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: The applications of mathematics to physical phenomena: the utility of mathematics MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The use of mathematics in mechanics: the dependence of progress in mechanics on mathematical discovery PHYSICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: Mathematical physics: observation and measurement in relation to mathematical formulations SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially CA M PA N E L L A, CA M P B E LL

Syntopical Guide134 Topic 5c: The use of mathematics in science: calculation and measurement RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Timaeus Galileo, Vol. 26, Dialogues Concerning the Two New Sciences, Third Day Bacon, Vol. 28, Novum Organum, First Book Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Bk. II, Sects. I–III Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chap. II; Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chaps. 3–4 Hardy, Vol. 56, Mathematician’s Apology RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Euler, Seven Bridges of Königsberg, Vol. 9 Forsyth, Mathematics in Life and Thought, Vol. 9 Haldane, On Being the Right Size, Vol. 8 Helmholtz, On the Conservation of Force, Vol. 8 Mendeleev, “Genesis of a Law of Nature,” Vol. 8 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Russell, Study of Mathematics, Vol. 9 Whitehead, “On Mathematical Method”; On the Nature of a Calculus, Vol. 9 THOMAS CARLYLE, 1795–1881 The Hero as King Vol. 6, pages 110–145 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ARISTOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: Aristocracy as a good form of government Topic 4: Aristocracy and the issue of rule by men as opposed to rule by law HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4a(4): The role of the individual in history: the great man, hero, or leader HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: The reaction of the community to its good or great men Topic 5b: Hero-worship: the exaltation of leaders

135 Topic 5d: The estimation of the role of the hero in history LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6b: The exemption of the sovereign person from the coer- cive force of law LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6b: The struggle for civil liberty and economic freedom: the overthrow of tyrants, despots, and oppressors MONARCHY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: The theory of royalty Topic 3: The use and abuse of monarchical power RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad Sophocles, Vol. 4, Oedipus the King Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. V–VI; Statesman Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. III, Chaps. 14–18 Virgil, Vol. 12, Aeneid Machiavelli, Vol. 21, Prince, especially Chaps. 15–21 Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part II, Chap. 29 Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bks. I–II Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the inequality that is between us; Of coaches Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Henry VI, First Part; King Henry VI, Second Part; King Henry VI, Third Part; King Richard III; King Richard II; King Henry IV, First Part; King Henry IV, Second Part; King Henry V; Julius Caesar; Vol. 25, Antony and Cleopatra; Coriolanus Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chaps. VII, VIII, XIV, XVII–XIX Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Introduction III; Second Part; Fourth Part Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Parts Two and Nine Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Second Epilogue Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. IX Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. I–II, VI–VII Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan, Preface RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Great Place, Vol. 7 Burke, Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol, Vol. 7 Emerson, Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 Galton, “Classification of Human Ability,” Vol. 8 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Hume, Of the Study of History, Vol. 7 Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 James, W., Great Men and Their Environment, Vol. 7 CA M P B E LL, CA R LY L E

Syntopical Guide136 Jefferson, “Biographical Sketches,” Vol. 6 Macaulay, Machiavelli, Vol. 7 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Shaw, Man of Destiny, Vol. 4 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Washington, Circular Letter to the Governors of All the States on Dis- banding the Army; Farewell Address, Vol. 6 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 RACHEL L. CARSON, 1907–1964 The Sunless Sea Vol. 8, pages 132–146 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EVOLUTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4a: The struggle for existence: its causes and consequences Topic 5b: The geographic distribution of the forms of life in rela- tion to the genealogy of existing species SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Science as the discipline of experimental inquiry and the organization of experimental knowledge: the sci- entific spirit Topic 2b: The comparison of science with poetry and history RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Phaedrus Aristotle, Vol. 8, History of Animals, Bks. V–VI, VIII, IX Darwin, Vol. 49, Origin of Species, Chaps. III–IV, XII–XIII Dobzhansky, Vol. 56, Genetics and the Origin of Species, Chaps. V–VI RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 Crane, Open Boat, Vol. 3 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Fabre, Laboratory of the Open Fields; Sacred Beetle, Vol. 8 Haldane, On Being the Right Size, Vol. 8 Huxley, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals; On a Piece of Chalk, Vol. 8 Lyell, “Geological Evolution,” Vol. 8 Malthus, “Principle of Population,” Vol. 7

137 ANTON CHEKHOV, 1860–1904 The Darling Vol. 3, pages 452–462 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CHANCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6a: Chance and fortune in the life of the individual: gam- bling and games of chance DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2d: The satisfaction of desire: possession and enjoyment Topic 4b: The attachment of desires: fixations, projections, iden- tifications, transferences HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(5): The importance of friendship and love for happiness LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1e: The intensity and power of love: its increase or de- crease; its constructive or destructive force RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Symposium Montaigne, Vol. 23, On some verses of Virgil Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Romeo and Juliet, Act II Balzac, Vol. 45, Cousin Bette Proust, Vol. 59, Swann in Love Mann, Vol. 59, Death in Venice RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Arnold, Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Of Marriage and Single Life, Vol. 7; Of Love, Vol. 10 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Turgenev, First Love, Vol. 3 Wilde, Happy Prince, Vol. 2 The Cherry Orchard Vol. 4, pages 249–294 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ARISTOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7: Historic and poetic exemplifications of aristocracy CHANGE, Vol. 1, especially CAR LYLE, CARS O N, C H E K H OV

Syntopical Guide138 Topic 12b: The love and hatred of change and the unchanging HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: The laws and patterns of historical change: cycles, progress, evolution PROGRESS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: Forces operating against social progress: emotional opposition to change or novelty; political conservatism RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aeschylus, Vol. 4, Eumenides Sophocles, Vol. 4, Antigone Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of vanity Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality Gibbon, Vol. 37, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, General Observations Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Second Epilogue RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 La Bruyère, Characters, Vol. 6 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 For Chekhov’s Uncle Vania in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 59 CICERO, 106–43 B.C. On Friendship Vol. 10, pages 286–316 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2e: Honor as the pledge of friendship: the codes of honor among social equals LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(3): The types of friendship: friendships based on utility, pleasure, or virtue Topic 3a: Friendship and love in relation to virtue and happiness STATE, Vol. 2, especially

139 Topic 3e: Love and justice as the bond of men in states: friendship and patriotism RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad, Bks. XVI–XVIII, XXIII Plato, Vol. 6, Lysis Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bks. VIII–X, Chap. 4 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of friendship Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Chaps. 33–34 Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part II, Props. 22, 35, 41–44; Part IV, Props. 35–36 Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chaps. 3–4, 10 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 12, Chap. XIII James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. X RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Followers and Friends, Vol. 7; Of Love; Of Friendship, Vol. 10 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 La Bruyère, Characters, Vol. 6 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 Scott, Two Drovers, Vol. 2 On Old Age Vol. 10, pages 317–343 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(1): The contribution of the goods of fortune to happi- ness: wealth, health, longevity IMMORTALITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The desire for immortality: the fear of death LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: Normal vitality and its impairment by disease, degenera- tion, and enfeeblement with age Topic 6c: The biological and psychological characteristics of the stages of life Topic 8d: The fear of death: the attitude of the hero, the philoso- pher, the poet, the martyr MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6c: The ages of man: infancy, youth, maturity, senescence; generational conflict RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Oedipus at Colonus C H E K H OV, C I C E RO

Syntopical Guide140 Aristophanes, Vol. 4, Acharnians Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. I, VII Aristotle, Vol. 8, Rhetoric, Bk. II, Chap. 13 Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bks. II, III Montaigne, Vol. 23, That to philosophize is to learn to die; Of age; Of the affection of fathers for their children; All things have their season; On some verses of Virgil Shakespeare, Vol. 25, King Lear Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part III, Chap. X Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 1, Chap. XXV; Bk. 5, Chap. XIV; Bk. 10, Chap. XVI; Bk. 13, Chap. XVII Hemingway, Vol. 60, Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Youth and Age, Vol. 7; Of Death, Vol. 10 Browne, “Immortality,” Vol. 10 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Epictetus, Enchiridion, Vol. 10 Epicurus, Letter to Menoeceus, Vol. 10 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Hazlitt, On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth, Vol. 10 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Singer, Spinoza of Market Street, Vol. 3 Swift, Resolutions when I Come to be Old, Vol. 7 Tolstoy, Death of Ivan Ilyitch; Three Hermits, Vol. 3 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 KARL VON CLAUSEWITZ, 1780–1831 What Is War? Vol. 7, pages 479–497 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1: War as the reign of force: the state of war and the state of nature; the martial spirit Topic 3a: The distinction between just and unjust warfare: wars of defense and wars of conquest Topic 7: The inevitability of war: the political necessity of military preparations

141 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. II Machiavelli, Vol. 21, Prince, Chaps. XII–XIV Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Chaps. 25–33 Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chaps. II–III, XVI Kant, Vol. 39, Science of Right, Second Part Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 3–9 Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of Right, Third Part, Sub-sect. III Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 2, Part III, Chaps. 22–26 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 9, Chaps. I, IX–XI; Bk. 10, Chaps. I, XIX, XXV; Bk. 11, Chaps. I–V; Bk. 13, Chaps. I–X, XVII–XIX; Bk. 14, Chaps. I–II; Bk. 15, Chaps. IV–V; First Epilogue, Chaps. I–IV Freud, Vol. 54, Civilization and Its Discontents, Chap. V Brecht, Vol. 60, Mother Courage and Her Children RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Dante, “On World Government,” Vol. 7 Great Documents, Charter of the United Nations, Vol. 6 Hugo, “Battle with the Cannon,” Vol. 2 Kant, Perpetual Peace, Vol. 7 Lincoln, Meditation on the Divine Will, Vol. 6 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 Prescott, “Land of Montezuma,” Vol. 6 Rousseau, Lasting Peace Through the Federation of Europe, Vol. 7 Shaw, Man of Destiny, Vol. 4 Washington, Circular Letter to the Governors of All the States on Dis- banding the Army, Vol. 6 WILLIAM KINGDON CLIFFORD, 1845–1879 The Postulates of the Science of Space Vol. 9, pages 243–259 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HYPOTHESIS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The foundations of mathematics: postulates, assumptions MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1c: The certainty and exactitude of mathematical knowl- edge: truth in mathematics; the a priori foundations of arithmetic and geometry C I C E RO, C LAU S EWITZ, C LI F F O R D

Syntopical Guide142 Topic 4b: The operations of geometry QUANTITY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The magnitudes of geometry: the relations of dimensionality Topic 3a: Straight lines: their length and their relations; angles, perpendiculars, parallels Topic 3d: Surfaces Topic 5a: Space: the matrix of figures and distances SPACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3c: Geometric space, its kinds and properties: spatial rela- tionships and configurations Topic 5: The mode of existence of geometric objects: their cha- racter as abstractions; their relation to intelligible matter RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, Physics, Bk. III, Chaps. 4–8; Bk. IV, Chaps. 1–9 Euclid, Vol. 10, Elements, Bk. I Ptolemy, Vol. 15, Almagest, Bk. I Copernicus, Vol. 15, On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres, Bk. I Descartes, Vol. 28, Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rule XIV Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chaps. XX, XXVIII Whitehead, Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chaps. 9, 13, 16 Einstein, Vol. 56, Relativity: The Special and the General Theory RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Poincaré, Space, Vol. 9 Russell, Study of Mathematics; Mathematics and the Metaphysicians, Vol. 9 Voltaire, Micromégas, Vol. 2; “English Men and Ideas,” Vol. 7 The Ethics of Belief Vol. 10, pages 16–36 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: Knowledge, belief, and opinion: their relation or distinction OPINION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2d: Reason, experience, and authority as sources of opinion REASONING, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4a: Immediate inference: its relation to mediated inference or reasoning

143 Topic 5a: The fact and the reasoned fact: mere belief distin- guished from belief on rational grounds RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. V Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book; Novum Or- ganum, First Book Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Parts I–IV Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sects. III–IV; Preface to the Treatise on the Vacuum Locke, Vol. 33, Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Bk. IV, Chaps. XVIII–XXI Hume, Vol. 33, Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sects. X–XI Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason Freud, Vol. 54, New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis, Lec- ture 35 Russell, Vol. 55, Problems of Philosophy, Chap. XIII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Vol. 10 Bacon, Of Truth, Vol. 10 Dewey, “Process of Thought,” Vol. 10 Dickens, “Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick,” Vol. 2 Emerson, Montaigne; or, the Skeptic, Vol. 10 Erskine, Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Faraday, Observations on Mental Education, Vol. 7 James, W., Will to Believe; Sentiment of Rationality, Vol. 10 Laplace, “Probability,” Vol. 9 Peirce, Red and the Black, Vol. 9 Voltaire, “Philosophy of Common Sense,” Vol. 10 JOSEPH CONRAD, 1857–1924 Youth Vol. 2, pages 210–236 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon COURAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6: The formation or training of the courageous man EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5f: Learning apart from teachers and books: the role of experience CLI F F ORD, C ON RAD

Syntopical Guide144 EXPERIENCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8: Variety of experience as an ideal of human life HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2c: Honor as due self-esteem: magnanimity or proper pride MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6c: The ages of man: infancy, youth, maturity, senescence; generational conflict MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4a: Memory in the life of the individual: personal identity and continuity RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plutarch, Vol. 13, Demosthenes Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I, Chap. 23 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the education of children Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chaps. 24, 26 Twain, Vol. 48, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Joyce, Vol. 59, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Bacon, Of Youth and Age, Vol. 7 Crane, Open Boat, Vol. 3 Defoe, Robinson Crusoe, Vol. 2 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Hazlitt, On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth, Vol. 10 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 Turgenev, First Love, Vol. 3 Twain, “Learning the River,” Vol. 6 For Conrad’s Heart of Darkness in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 59 STEPHEN CRANE, 1871–1900 The Open Boat Vol. 3, pages 5–26 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CAUSE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: Causality and freedom CHANCE, Vol. 1, especially

145 Topic 2b: The relation of chance to fate, providence, and predestination COURAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The passions in the sphere of courage: fear, daring, anger, hope, despair FATE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The decrees of fate and the decisions of the gods LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8b: The love of life: the instinct of self-preservation; the life instinct MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 10d: The flniteness and insufficiency of man: his sense of being dependent and ordered to something be- yond himself WORLD, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6c: The rationality or intelligibility of the universe Topic 6d: The goodness and beauty of the universe: its evil and imperfections RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Odyssey, Bk. V Euripides, Vol. 4, Alcestis Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bk. X Virgil, Vol. 12, Aeneid, Bk. I Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto XXVI Montaigne, Vol. 23, That the taste of good and evil depends in large part on the opinion we have of them Shakespeare, Vol. 25, Pericles, Act III, Scene I; Tempest, Act I, Scene I Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chap. 42 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Second Epilogue Conrad, Vol. 59, Heart of Darkness Beckett, Vol. 60, Waiting for Godot RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Death; Of Adversity, Vol. 10 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 Defoe, Robinson Crusoe, Vol. 2 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Emerson, Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 James, W., Energies of Men, Vol. 7 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 C O N RAD, C RAN E

Syntopical Guide146 JEAN DE CRÈVECOEUR, 1735–1813 “The Making of Americans” from Letters from an American Farmer Vol. 6, pages 546–559 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4a: Liberty and equality for all under law LABOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7f: The relation of economic to political freedom: economic democracy LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1f: The freedom of equals under government: the equality of citizenship PROGRESS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4c: The growth of political freedom: the achievement of citizenship and civil rights; progress toward an equality of conditions RELIGION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6e: Religious liberty: freedom of conscience; religious toleration RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bks. III, IV Aristotle, Vol. 8, Athenian Constitution, Chaps. 5–42 Locke, Vol. 33, Letter Concerning Toleration Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. I, Chap. X Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 10, 35 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, On Liberty, Chap. 1 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Introduction; Vol. 1, Part II, Chaps. 5–6; Vol. 2, Part II, Chap. 1 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Great Documents, Virginia Declaration of Rights, Vol. 6 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Hume, Of Refinement in the Arts, Vol. 7 Jefferson, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute, Vol. 6 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Whitman, Preface to Leaves of Grass, Vol. 5

147 The Discovery of Radium Vol. 8, pages 32–42 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ELEMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The concept of element Topic 3: The theory of the elements in natural philosophy, physics, and chemistry PHYSICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4: The experimental method in the study of nature SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Science as the discipline of experimental inquiry and the organization of experimental knowledge: the sci- entific spirit Topic 5: Scientific method Topic 6: The development of the sciences SPACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c: Space as a medium of physical action: the ether and action-at-a-distance; the phenomena of gravitation, radiation, and electricity RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Part VI Lavoisier, Vol. 42, Elements of Chemistry Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World Heisenberg, Vol. 56, Physics and Philosophy, Chaps. 5, 9 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Faraday, Chemical History of a Candle, Vol. 8 Galton, “Classification of Human Ability,” Vol. 8 James, W., Energies of Men, Vol. 7 Mendeleev, “Genesis of a Law of Nature,” Vol. 8 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Tyndall, “Michael Faraday,” Vol. 8 Wöhler, On the Artificial Production of Urea, Vol. 8 Woolf, Art of Biography, Vol. 6 C RÈVE C O E U R, C U R I E EVE CURIE, 1904–2007

Syntopical Guide148 DANTE ALIGHIERI, 1265–1321 “On World Government” from De Monarchia Vol. 7, pages 383–399 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CITIZEN, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7: Political citizenship and membership in the city of God Topic 8: The idea of world citizenship: the political brother- hood of man JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1e: Justice as an act of will or duty fulfilling obligations to the common good: the harmonious action of individual wills under a universal law of freedom WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 11d: World government and world peace RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aurelius, Vol. 11, Meditations, Bks. III–IV Kant, Vol. 39, Science of Right, Second Part Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of Right, Third Part, Sub-sect. III Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 2, Part I, Chap. 5 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 6, Chap. VII Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part II, Bk. V, Chap. 5 Freud, Vol. 54, Thoughts for the Times on War and Death, Chap. I RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Clausewitz, What Is War?, Vol. 7 Great Documents, Charter of the United Nations; Universal Declaration of Human Rights, Vol. 6 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Kant, Perpetual Peace, Vol. 7 Rousseau, Lasting Peace through the Federation of Europe, Vol. 7 For Dante’s Divine Comedy in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 19 TOBIAS DANTZIG, 1884–1956 Fingerprints The Empty Column Vol. 9, pages 165–189

149 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: The objects of mathematics: ideas or abstractions; num- ber, figure, extension, relation, order Topic 2a: The apprehension of mathematical objects: by intuition, imagination, construction; the forms of time and space Topic 2b: The being of mathematical objects: their real, ideal, or mental existence QUANTITY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4: Discrete quantities: number and numbering RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. VII Aristotle, Vol. 7, Metaphysics, Bk. X, Chaps. 1–7; Bk. XI, Chaps. 1–9; Bk. XIII, Chap. 6-Bk. XIV, Chap. 6 Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason, Introduction James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXVIII Whitehead, Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chap. 1 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Campbell, Measurement, Vol. 9 Forsyth, Mathematics, in Life and Thought, Vol. 9 Hogben, Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization, Vol. 9 Kasner and Newman, New Names for Old; Beyond the Googol, Vol. 9 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Russell, Definition of Number, Vol. 9 Whitehead, On the Nature of a Calculus, Vol. 9 CHARLES ROBERT DARWIN, 1809–1882 Autobiography Vol. 8, pages 47–93 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: The influence of the family in moral training Topic 5e: The emotional aspect of learning: pleasure, desire, interest Topic 5f: Learning apart from teachers and books: the role of experience EVOLUTION, Vol. 1, especially DANTE, DANTZ I G, DARWI N

Syntopical Guide150 Topic 4: The theory of evolution: the origin of new species from a common ancestry SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The comparison of science with poetry and history Topic 5a: The role of experience: observation and experiment RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of practice; Of experience Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Parts I–III; Meditation II James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chaps. VII, X Freud, Vol. 54, New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis, Lec- ture 35 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Carson, Sunless Sea, Vol. 8 Curie, Discovery of Radium, Vol. 8 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Dewey, “Process of Thought,” Vol. 10 Eiseley, “On Time,” Vol. 8 Fabre, Laboratory of the Open Fields; Sacred Beetle, Vol. 8 Galton, “Classification of Human Ability,” Vol. 8 Huxley, On a Piece of Chalk; On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, Vol. 8 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5 Lyell, “Geological Evolution,” Vol. 8 Malthus, “Principle of Population,” Vol. 7 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Tyndall, “Michael Faraday,” Vol. 8 Woolf, Art of Biography, Vol. 6 For other works by Darwin in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 49 DANIEL DEFOE, 1660–1731 Robinson Crusoe Vol. 2, pages 5–121 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5f: Learning apart from teachers and books: the role of experience EXPERIENCE, Vol. 1, especially

151 Topic 4b: Verification by experience: experience as the ultimate test of truth Topic 6a: Experience as indispensable to sound judgment and prudence LABOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1d: The social necessity of labor and the moral obliga- tion to work Topic 1e: The honor of work and the virtue of productivity: progress through the invention of arts for the con- quest of nature RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Philoctetes Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. I Epictetus, Vol. 11, Discourses, Bk. III, Chap. 13 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of solitude Shakespeare, Vol. 25, Tempest, Act I Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Utilitarianism, Chap. 2 James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chaps. IV, XI, XIX Dewey, Vol. 55, Experience and Education Tawney, Vol. 57, Acquisitive Society RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 Crane, Open Boat, Vol. 3 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6; Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 Fabre, Sacred Beetle, Vol. 8 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 Tolstoy, Three Hermits, Vol. 3 Twain, “Learning the River,” Vol. 6 Voltaire, “Philosophy of Common Sense,” Vol. 10 THOMAS DE QUINCEY, 1785–1859 Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power Vol. 5, pages 358–361 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b: The role of matter and form in artistic and natural production: beauty versus utility DARWI N, D E F OE, D E Q U I N C EY

Syntopical Guide152 Topic 10a: The influence of the arts on character and citizenship: the role of the arts in the training of youth POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: Poetry in relation to knowledge Topic 5a: The aim of poetry to instruct as well as to delight: the pretensions or deceptions of the poet as teacher RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. II–III, X Augustine, Vol. 16, City of God, Bk. II, Chaps. 8–15 Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I, Author’s Prologue Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the education of children; Apology for Raymond Sebond Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part One, Chaps. 32, 47–50 Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I, Bk. II Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Prelude on the Stage RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Of Studies, Vol. 5 Bury, Herodotus, Vol. 6 Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 Crane, Open Boat, Vol. 3 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Eliot, T. S., Dante, Vol. 5 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Hugo, “Battle with the Cannon,” Vol. 2 Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 Johnson, Preface to Shakespeare, Vol. 5 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Molière, Misanthrope, Vol. 4 Sainte-Beuve, Montaigne, Vol. 5 Santayana, Lucretius; Goethe’s Faust, Vol. 10 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Some Forms of Literature; On the Comparative Place of Interest and Beauty in Works of Art, Vol. 5 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 Tolstoy, Death of Ivan Ilyitch, Vol. 3 On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth Vol. 5, pages 362–366

153 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: Beauty in nature and art KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6b(4): Knowledge in relation to the faculties of under- standing, judgment, and reason; and to the work of intuition, imagination, and understanding MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6c(2): The schema of the imagination as mediating be- tween concepts of the understanding and the sensory manifold of intuition: the transcendental unity of apperception RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Shakespeare, Vol. 25, Macbeth Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason, Part I; Critique of Judgement, Introduction Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Second Part James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. X Bergson, Vol. 55, Introduction to Metaphysics RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Beauty, Vol. 5 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 Johnson, Preface to Shakespeare, Vol. 5 Lamb, My First Play, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On the Comparative Place of Interest and Beauty in Works of Art, Vol. 5 JOHN DEWEY, 1859–1952 “The Process of Thought” from How We Think Vol. 10, pages 92–213 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DEFINITION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1b: The purpose of definition: the clarification of ideas HYPOTHESIS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The use of hypotheses in the process of dialectic DE QU I NC EY, DEWEY

Syntopical Guide154 IDEA, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1b: Ideas or conceptions as that by which the mind thinks or knows Topic 5d: The order of concepts in the stages of learning: the more and the less general Topic 5e: The association, comparison, and discrimination of ideas: the stream of thought or consciousness JUDGMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: Judgment as an act or faculty of the mind: its contrast with the act of conception or with the faculties of under- standing and reason Topic 7c: Reasoning as a sequence of judgments: the chain of reasoning Topic 8b: Analytic and synthetic judgments: trifling and instruc- tive propositions KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6b(4): Knowledge in relation to the faculties of under- standing, judgment, and reason; and to the work of intuition, imagination, and understanding LANGUAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: The role of language in thought and behavior Topic 5a: The abuse of words: ambiguity, imprecision, obscurity; the corruption of language for political motives Topic 8: Grammar and rhetoric: the effective use of language in teaching and persuasion MIND, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1a(2): The cooperation of intellect and sense: the depen- dence of thought upon imagination and the direction of imagination by reason REASONING, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1: Definitions or descriptions of reasoning: the process of thought Topic 1c: The role of sense, memory, and imagination in reason- ing: perceptual inference, rational reminiscence, the collation of images Topic 5a: The fact and the reasoned fact: mere belief distin- guished from belief on rational grounds Topic 5b(2): Definitions used as means in reasoning; definitions as the end of reasoning Topic 5b(3): A priori and a posteriori reasoning: from causes or from effects: from principles or from experience; analysis and synthesis SENSE, Vol. 2, especially

155 Topic 3d(1): The functions of the common sense: discrimination, comparison, association, collation or perception RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. VI–VII Aristotle, Vol. 7, Posterior Analytics, Bk. I, Chaps. 1–3 Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, First Part, Q 14, Arts. 1–12 Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part I, Chaps. 4–5 Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book; Novum Or- ganum, First Book Descartes, Vol. 28, Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rules V–XIV Locke, Vol. 33, Essay Concerning Human Understanding, Bk. IV Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XIII Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chaps. 9–10 Russell, Vol. 55, Problems of Philosophy, Chaps. VII–XI RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Discourse, Vol. 5 Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Erskine, Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Faraday, Observations on Mental Education, Vol. 7 Forsyth, Mathematics, in Life and Thought, Vol. 9 James, W., Will to Believe; Sentiment of Rationality, Vol. 10 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 For Dewey’s Experience and Education in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 55 CHARLES DICKENS, 1812–1870 “A Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick” from The Pickwick Papers Vol. 2, pages 391–448 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CUSTOM AND CONVENTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5a: The conventional determination of moral judgments: the moral evaluation of conventions D EWEY, D I C K E N S

Syntopical Guide156 Topic 6a: Constitutions, social contracts, positive laws, and man- ners as conventions Topic 6b: The force of custom with respect to law LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5g: The application of positive law to cases: the casuistry of the judicial process; the conduct of a trial; the adminis- tration of justice Topic 9: The legal profession and the study of law: praise and dispraise of lawyers and judges VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4e(3): Circumstances as affecting the morality of human acts RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. II, Chaps. 10–13; Bk. III, Chaps. 39–44 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of experience Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Merchant of Venice, Act IV, Scene I Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part Two, Chap. 49 Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part I, Chap. IV Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Twain, Vol. 48, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Fitzgerald, Vol. 60, Great Gatsby RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 Scott, Two Drovers, Vol. 2 For Dickens’ Little Dorrit in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 47 ISAK DINESEN, 1885–1962 Sorrow-Acre Vol. 3, pages 615–641 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ARISTOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4: Aristocracy and the issue of rule by men as opposed to rule by law Topic 7: Historic and poetic exemplifications of aristocracy LOVE, Vol. 1, especially

157 Topic 2b(4): Patterns of love and friendship in the family Topic 3d: The heroism of friendship and the sacrifices of love OPINION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6b: The inexactitude of moral principles as applied to particular cases TYRANNY AND DESPOTISM, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The degeneration of oligarchy: the tyranny of the wealthy RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Antigone Euripides, Vol. 4, Trojan Women Plato, Vol. 6, Statesman Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of three good women Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Henry VI, First Part, Act IV, Scenes V–VII Montesquieu, Vol. 35, Spirit of Laws, Bk. V, Chap. 8 Dickens, Vol. 47, Little Dorrit Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. II–X Chekhov, Vol. 59, Uncle Vania Woolf, Vol. 60, To the Lighthouse RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Parents and Children, Vol. 7; Of Adversity; Of Love, Vol. 10 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 Crane, Open Boat, Vol. 3 Fitzgerald, Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Vol. 3 Hazlitt, On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth, Vol. 10 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 Hugo, “Battle with the Cannon,” Vol. 2 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Tolstoy, Death of Ivan Ilyitch; What Men Live By, Vol. 3 FYODOR DOSTOEVSKY, 1821–1881 White Nights Vol. 3, pages 276–319 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially D I C K E N S, D I N E S E N, D O STO E V S KY

Syntopical Guide158 Topic 5a: Desire ruling imagination: daydreaming and fantasy HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(5): The importance of friendship and love for happiness Topic 4a: Man’s capacity for happiness: differences in human nature with respect to happiness LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(1): The relation between love and friendship Topic 2b(2): Self-love in relation to the love of others: vanity and self-interest Topic 3d: The heroism of friendship and the sacrifices of love RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Phaedrus; Symposium Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto V Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Love’s Labour’s Lost, Act IV, Scene III James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. X Proust, Vol. 59, Swann in Love RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Apuleius, “Cupid and Psyche,” Vol. 3 Bacon, Of Love, Vol. 10 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Lamb, Dream Children, Vol. 5 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Turgenev, First Love, Vol. 3 For Dostoevsky’s Brothers Karamazov in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 52 SIR ARTHUR EDDINGTON, 1882–1944 The Running-Down of the Universe Vol. 8, pages 565–580 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CHANCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4: Cause and chance in relation to knowledge and opinion: the theory of probability CHANGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The measure of motion Topic 13: The problem of the eternity of motion or change

159 MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6g: Work and energy: their conservation; perpetual motion; their relation to mass; the principle of least action NATURE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3a: The maxims and laws of nature: the rationality of nature; entropy SPACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: Space, void, and motion TIME, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c: The creation of time: the priority of eternity to time; the immutability of the world after the end of time Topic 3: The mode of existence of time WORLD, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1a: The opposed metaphors: the universe as a machine and the universe as a living organism; the doctrine of the world soul RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, Physics, Bk. VIII Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bks. I–II Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Bk. III Faraday, Vol. 42, Experimental Researches in Electricity Einstein, Vol. 56, Relativity: The Special and the General Theory Heisenberg, Vol. 56, Physics and Philosophy, Chaps. 6–9 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Emerson, Montaigne; or, the Skeptic, Vol. 10 Epicurus, Letter to Herodotus, Vol. 10 Helmholtz, On the Conservation of Force, Vol. 8 Jeans, Beginnings and Endings, Vol. 8 Poincaré, Chance, Vol. 9 Santayana, Lucretius, Vol. 10 Voltaire, Micromégas, Vol. 2; “English Men and Ideas,” Vol. 7 For Eddington’s Expanding Universe in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 56 ALBERT EINSTEIN, 1879–1955 and LEOPOLD INFELD, 1898–1968 “The Rise and Decline of Classical Physics” from The Evolution of Physics Vol. 8, pages 490–560 D O STO E V S KY, E D D I N GTO N, E I N STE I N A N D I N F E L D

Syntopical Guide160 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ASTRONOMY AND COSMOLOGY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: The method of astronomy Topic 6c(2): The form of celestial motion: circles, the equant, ellipses Topic 6c(3): The laws of celestial motion: celestial mechanics CHANGE, Vol. 1 ELEMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The conception of atoms as indivisible, imperceptible, and indestructible Topic 6: The conception of atoms as divisible, detectable but not perceptible, and composed of elementary particles; theories of atomic structure; the properties of subatomic particles INFINITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The infinite in quantity: infinite magnitudes and multitudes Topic 4: The infinity of matter MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5b: Mathematical physics: the mathematical structure of nature MECHANICS, Vol. 2 PHYSICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: The relation of the philosophy of nature to mathemat- ics: mathematical method and mathematical principles in natural philosophy Topic 3: Mathematical physics: observation and measurement in relation to mathematical formulations Topic 4b: Experimental discovery: inductive generalization from experiment; the role of theory or hypothesis in experimentation Topic 4d: Experimental measurement: the relation between the observer and the phenomena; the application of mathe- matical formulas Topic 5: The utility of physics: the invention of machines; the techniques of engineering; the mastery of nature QUANTITY, Vol. 2 SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Science as the discipline of experimental inquiry and the organization of experimental knowledge: the sci- entific spirit

161 Topic 4: The nature of scientific knowledge Topic 5: Scientific method SPACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: Space, void, and motion RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are Copernicus, Vol. 15, On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres, Trans- lator’s Introduction; Bks. I, V Kepler, Vol. 15, Epitome of Copernican Astronomy, Bks. IV–V Gilbert, Vol. 26, On the Loadstone Galileo, Vol. 26, Dialogues Concerning the Two New Sciences, Third and Fourth Days Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy; Optics Huygens, Vol. 32, Treatise on Light Faraday, Vol. 42, Experimental Researches in Electricity Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chaps. I–II, IX Bohr, Vol. 56, Atomic Theory and the Description of Nature Heisenberg, Vol. 56, Physics and Philosophy, Chaps. 1–5, 11 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Campbell, Measurement; Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science, Vol. 9 Clifford, Postulates of the Science of Space, Vol. 9 Curie, Discovery of Radium, Vol. 8 Dewey, “Process of Thought,” Vol. 10 Epicurus, Letter to Herodotus, Vol. 10 Faraday, Chemical History of a Candle, Vol. 8 Forsyth, Mathematics, in Life and Thought, Vol. 9 Galileo, Starry Messenger, Vol. 8 Helmholtz, On the Conservation of Force, Vol. 8 Mendeleev, “Genesis of a Law of Nature,” Vol. 8 Poincaré, Space, Vol. 9 Russell, Mathematics and the Metaphysicians, Vol. 9 Tyndall, “Michael Faraday,” Vol. 8 Voltaire, “English Men and Ideas,” Vol. 7 Whitehead, “On Mathematical Method,” Vol. 9 For Einstein’s Relativity: The Special and the General Theory in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 56 E I N ST E I N A N D I N F E L D

Syntopical Guide162 “On Time” from The Immense Journey Vol. 8, pages 123–129 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b: Analogies of structure and function among different classes of animals Topic 2c: Continuity and discontinuity in the scale of animal life: gradation from lower to higher forms Topic 11b: The relation between animals and their environments EVOLUTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The problem of evolution: the origin of plant and ani- mal species Topic 4: The theory of evolution: the origin of new species from a common ancestry Topic 5: The facts of evolution: evidences bearing on the history of life on earth HABIT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The instincts or innate habits of animals and men SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The comparison of science with poetry and history TIME, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The mode of existence of time Topic 6: The knowledge of time and the experience of duration Topic 8a: Prehistoric and historic time: the antiquity of man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Augustine, Vol. 16, Confessions, Bk. XII Darwin, Vol. 49, Origin of Species; Descent of Man, Chaps. I–II, IV–VII, XV–XVI Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chaps. I, V Dobzhansky, Vol. 56, Genetics and the Origin of Species, Chaps. I, V–VI, X RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Boeke, Cosmic View, Vol. 8 Carson, Sunless Sea, Vol. 8 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Huxley, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals; On a Piece of Chalk, Vol. 8 LOREN EISELEY, 1907–1977

163 Jeans, Beginnings and Endings, Vol. 8 Lyell, “Geological Evolution,” Vol. 8 Voltaire, Micromégas, Vol. 2 GEORGE ELIOT, 1819–1880 The Lifted Veil Vol. 3, pages 157–193 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EMOTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: Emotion in relation to feelings of pleasure and pain Topic 2c: The opposition of particular emotions to one another Topic 4c: Inherited or acquired emotional dispositions: the moral significance of temperamental types; emotional torpor or lethargy MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The sciences of human nature: anthropology and psychology; ethnography and ethnology; rational and empirical psychology; experimental and clinical psychology Topic 6a: The cause and range of human inequalities: differences in ability, inclination, temperament, habit Topic 6b: The equality or inequality of men and women PROPHECY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1a: Prophecy as the reading of fate, the foretelling of for- tune, the beholding of the future RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3 Odyssey, Bk. XI Sophocles, Vol. 4, Oedipus the King; Oedipus at Colonus; Antigone Virgil, Vol. 12, Aeneid, Bk. VI Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One; Part Two, Act II Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chaps. 19, 117, 135 Eliot, T. S., Vol. 60, Waste Land RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Bacon, Of Marriage and Single Life, Vol. 7; Of Love, Vol. 10 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 E I S E LEY, G. E LI OT

Syntopical Guide164 Mann, Mario and the Magician, Vol. 3 Plutarch, Of Bashfulness, Vol. 7 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 Stevenson, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Vol. 2 For George Eliot’s Middlemarch in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 46 THOMAS STEARNS ELIOT, 1888–1965 Dante Vol. 5, pages 371–403 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon IDEA, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b(4): Univocal and analogical terms LANGUAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 9: The language of poetry: the poet’s enchantment with language PHILOSOPHY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1d: The relation of philosophy to myth, poetry, and history POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8b: Critical standards and artistic rules with respect to the language of poetry: the distinction between prose and verse; the measure of excellence in style Topic 8c: The interpretation of poetry and myth RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Protagoras Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part Two, Chap. 16 Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, Introduction—First Part, Sect. I, Bk. I Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part Two, Act III Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. XX–XXII Joyce, Vol. 59, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Vol. 10 Arnold, Study of Poetry, Vol. 5 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Dante, “On World Government,” Vol. 7 Hazlitt, On Swift, Vol. 5

165 Johnson, Preface to Shakespeare, Vol. 5 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Style, Vol. 5 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5 For Dante’s Divine Comedy in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 19 Tradition and the Individual Talent Vol. 5, pages 404–411 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4b: Memory in the life of the group, race, or nation: in- stinct, legend, and tradition POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The inspiration or genius of the poet: the role of experience and imagination; the influence of the po- etic tradition Topic 6a: The expression of emotion in poetry RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Ion Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I, Bk. II Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 2, Part I, Chaps. 9–18 Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Prelude on the Stage Joyce, Vol. 59, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry; Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Hazlitt, My First Acquaintance with Poets; Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen, Vol. 5 Hume, Of the Study of History, Vol. 7 James, W., Great Men and Their Environment, Vol. 7 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 Stevenson, Lantern-Bearers, Vol. 7 Whitman, Preface to Leaves of Grass, Vol. 5 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5 For T. S. Eliot’s Waste Land in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 60 G. E LIOT T. S. E LIOT

Syntopical Guide166 RALPH WALDO EMERSON, 1803–1882 Thoreau Vol. 6, pages 150–165 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 12c: Friendship or love between animals and men EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5f: Learning apart from teachers and books: the role of experience LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c: The force of tyrannical, unjust, or bad laws: the right of rebellion or disobedience LIBERTY, Vol.1, especially Topic 3d: Freedom from conflict and freedom for individuality as conditions of happiness NATURE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3a: The maxims and laws of nature: the rationality of nature; entropy RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bk. V Epictetus, Vol. 11, Discourses, Bk. IV, Chap. 1 Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I, Chaps. 23–24 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of cruelty; Of experience Milton, Vol. 29, Areopagitica Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Part Two Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 2, Part IV, Chaps. 6–7 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Defoe, Robinson Crusoe, Vol. 2 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Emerson, Nature; Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 Great Documents, Declaration of Independence, Vol. 6 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 Stevenson, Lantern-Bearers, Vol. 7 Thoreau, Civil Disobedience; Plea for Captain John Brown, Vol. 6 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Woolf, Art of Biography, Vol. 6

167 Nature Vol. 10, pages 512–524 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: Beauty in nature and in art CHANGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4: Motion and rest: contrary motions NATURE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Nature as the universe or the totality of things: the iden- tification of God and nature; the distinction between natura naturans and natura naturata Topic 2b: Nature and convention: the state of nature and the state of society Topic 3a: The maxims and laws of nature: the rationality of nature; entropy RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Timaeus Plotinus, Vol. 11, Third Ennead, Eighth Tractate; Sixth Ennead, Third Tractate Montaigne, Vol. 23, To the Reader; Of repentance; Of experience Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part I, Props. 1–32 Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Def. III; Laws I–III Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I, Bk. II Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chap. V RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Vol. 10 Bacon, Sphinx, Vol. 8 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Epicurus, Letter to Herodotus, Vol. 10 Fabre, Laboratory of the Open Fields; Sacred Beetle, Vol. 8 Huxley, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, Vol. 8 James, W., Will to Believe, Vol 10 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Mill, J. S., Nature, Vol. 10 Santayana, Lucretius, Vol. 10 Voltaire, “Philosophy of Common Sense,” Vol. 10 Self-Reliance Vol. 10, pages 525–545 E M E R S O N

Syntopical Guide168 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CUSTOM AND CONVENTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 9a: Custom as a source of opinion and belief: its influence on judgments of beauty HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2c: Honor as due self-esteem: magnanimity or proper pride OPINION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3a: The truth of knowledge and of right opinion: their dif- ference with respect to manner of acquisition, stability, and teachability Topic 5a: Rights and duties with respect to the expression of opinion WISDOM, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1a: Diverse conceptions of natural wisdom: the supreme form of human knowledge RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aeschylus, Vol. 4, Agamemnon Plato, Vol. 6, Apology Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. IV, Chaps. 2–4 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of presumption Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part IV, Prop. 18 Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. II Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Kierkegaard, Vol. 43, Fear and Trembling Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Parts Two and Nine Fitzgerald, Vol. 60, Great Gatsby RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Bacon, Of Adversity, Vol. 10 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Crane, Open Boat, Vol. 3 Defoe, Robinson Crusoe, Vol. 2 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Sainte-Beuve, Montaigne, Vol. 5 Shaw, Man of Destiny, Vol. 4 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Twain, “Learning the River,” Vol. 6 Washington, Farewell Address, Vol. 6

169 Montaigne; or, the Skeptic Vol. 10, pages 546–562 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5c: Dogmatism, skepticism, and the critical attitude with respect to the extent, certainty, and finality of human knowledge MIND, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5b: The natural limits of the mind: the unknowable; objects which transcend its powers; reason’s critical determina- tion of its own limits or boundaries RELATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6b: Absolute and relative with respect to truth TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7a: The impossibility of knowing the truth: the restriction of all human judgments to degrees of probability; the denial of axioms and of the possibility of demonstration RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Euthydemus Montaigne, Vol. 23, Apology for Raymond Sebond Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, First Book Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. III Hume, Vol. 33, Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sect. IV, Part II–Sect. V, Part I Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Parts One and Six James, W., Vol. 55, Pragmatism, Lectures VI–VII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Truth, Vol. 10 Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Eddington, Running-Down of the Universe, Vol. 8 Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 James, W., Will to Believe, Vol. 10 Sainte-Beuve, Montaigne, Vol. 5 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 For Montaigne’s Essays in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 23 EPICTETUS, c. 60–c. 138 The Enchiridion Vol. 10, pages 236–254 E M E R S O N, E P I CT E T U S

Syntopical Guide170 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6a: The regulation of desire by reason: the discipline of moral virtue or duty DUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: Comparison of the ethics of duty with the ethics of happi- ness, pleasure, or utility GOOD AND EVIL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3b: Goodness in the order of freedom and will Topic 4c: Goods of the body and goods of the soul: the scale of values Topic 4d: Intrinsic and external goods: intrinsic worth and ex- trinsic value LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8d: The fear of death: the attitude of the hero, the philoso- pher, the poet, the martyr RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. IV, IX Aurelius, Vol. 11, Meditations, Bks. III–VII Augustine, Vol. 16, City of God, Bk. XII, Chaps. 4–10 Montaigne, Vol. 23, That the taste of good and evil depends in large part on the opinion we have of them Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part IV, Appendix Kant, Vol. 39, Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysic of Morals, First–Second Sections; Third Section; Critique of Practical Reason, Part I, Bk. II, Chaps. I–II Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Utilitarianism, Chap. 2 Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of Right, First Part Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Part One RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Of Death, Vol. 10 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Epicurus, Letter to Menoeceus, Vol. 10 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 For Epictetus’ Discourses in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 11

171 EPICURUS, c. 341–c. 270 B.C. Letter to Herodotus Vol. 10, pages 216–229 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ELEMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5b: Atoms and the void as the ultimate constituents of reality INFINITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: The infinite divisibility of matter: the issue concerning atoms or elementary particles MATTER, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c: The motions of bodies SOUL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3d: The denial of soul as an immaterial principle, form, or substance: the atomic theory of the soul RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, Physics, Bk. IV, Chaps. 6–9 Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bks. I–II Plotinus, Vol. 11, Fourth Ennead, Seventh Tractate Bacon, Vol. 28, Novum Organum, Second Book Newton, Vol. 32, Optics, Bk. III, Part I Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason; Critique of Judgement, Second Part, First-Second Division Bohr, Vol. 56, Atomic Theory and the Description of Nature Heisenberg, Vol. 56, Physics and Philosophy, Chaps. 1–4 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Boeke, Cosmic View, Vol. 8 Eddington, Running-Down of the Universe, Vol. 8 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Deline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Emerson, Nature, Vol. 10 Faraday, Chemical History of a Candle, Vol. 8 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Santayana, Lucretius, Vol. 10 Swift, Modest Proposal, Vol. 7 Voltaire, Micromégas, Vol. 2 Letter to Menoeceus Vol. 10, pages 230–233 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially E P I CT E T U S, E P I C U R U S

Syntopical Guide172 Topic 6a: The regulation of desire by reason: the discipline of moral virtue or duty PLEASURE AND PAIN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6a: Pleasure as the only good or as the measure of goodness in all other things PRUDENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3b: Prudence as a factor in the formation and maintenance of moral virtue: the determination of the relative or subjective mean RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Philebus Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. II, Chaps. 2–9; Bk. VI Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bk. I Epictetus, Vol. 11, Discourses, Bk. I Aurelius, Vol. 11, Meditations, Bks. III–VII Montaigne, Vol. 23, That to philosophize is to learn to die Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part III, Props. 55–58 Kant, Vol. 39, Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysic of Morals, First Section; Critique of Practical Reason, Part I, Bk. II, Chaps. I–II Mill, J. S. Vol. 40, Utilitarianism, Chap. 2 Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. X RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Death, Vol. 10 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Epictetus, Enchiridion, Vol. 10 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Poe, Masque of the Red Death, Vol. 2 Sainte-Beuve, Montaigne, Vol. 5 Santayana, Lucretius, Vol. 10 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 JOHN ERSKINE, 1879–1951 The Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent Vol. 10, pages 5–13 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon GOOD AND EVIL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c: The goodness of knowledge or wisdom: the use of knowledge

173 VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1a: The relation between knowledge and virtue WILL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1: The existence and nature of will: its relation to reason or mind and to desire or emotion RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Protagoras; Meno; Republic, Bk. I Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. I, Chaps. 7–9; Bk. VI, Chap. 12–Bk. VII, Chap. 5 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Apology for Raymond Sebond Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part II, Props. 48–49 Milton, Vol. 29, Paradise Lost, Bks. IV, IX; Areopagitica Hume, Vol. 33, Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sect. I Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Utilitarianism, Chap. 2 Dewey, Vol. 55, Experience and Education RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Of Studies, Vol. 5 Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Dewey, “Process of Thought,” Vol. 10 Faraday, Observations on Mental Education, Vol. 7 James, W., Will to Believe, Vol. 10 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Sainte-Beuve, Montaigne, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 Voltaire, “Philosophy of Common Sense,” Vol. 10 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 LEONHARD EULER, 1707–1783 The Seven Bridges of Königsberg Vol. 9, pages 193–201 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: Method in mathematics: the model of mathemat- ical thought Topic 3d: Symbols and formulas: the attainment of generality SPACE, Vol. 2, especially E P I C U RU S, E R S K I N E, E U LE R

Syntopical Guide174 Topic 3c: Geometric space, its kinds and properties: spatial rela- tionships and configurations RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Archimedes, Vol. 10, Method Treating of Mechanical Problems Descartes, Vol. 28, Geometry Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Defi- nitions–Bk. I, Sect. II; Bk. II, Sects. I–V Poincaré, Vol. 56, Science and Hypothesis, Chaps. 3–4 Whitehead, Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chaps. 1, 5–6, 9, 16 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Campbell, Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science, Vol. 9 Whitehead, “On Mathematical Method,” Vol. 9 JEAN HENRI FABRE, 1823–1915 A Laboratory of the Open Fields The Sacred Beetle Vol. 8, pages 97–119 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1d: The habits or instincts of animals: specifically ani- mal behavior Topic 11: The habitat of animals SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Science as the discipline of experimental inquiry and the organization of experimental knowledge: the sci- entific spirit Topic 5a: The role of experience: observation and experiment RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, History of Animals, Bk. V, Chap. 15–Bk. VI, Chap. 6; Bk. VIII; Bk. IX, Chaps. 9–13 Harvey, Vol. 26, Anatomical Exercises on the Generation of Animals, Introduction Bacon, Vol. 28, Novum Organum, First Book Darwin, Vol. 49, Origin of Species, Chap. VIII; Descent of Man, Chap. IV Dobzhansky, Vol. 56, Genetics and the Origin of Species, Chaps. V–VI RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Beauty, Vol. 5

175 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Bernard, Experimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies, Vol. 8 Carson, Sunless Sea, Vol. 8 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Defoe, Robinson Crusoe, Vol. 2 Emerson, Nature, Vol. 10 Haldane, On Being the Right Size, Vol. 8 Huxley, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, Vol. 8 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 MICHAEL FARADAY, 1791–1867 Observations on Mental Education Vol. 7, pages 208–232 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon JUDGMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: Judgment as an act or faculty of the mind: its contrast with the act of conception or with the faculties of under- standing and reason Topic 8a: Self-evident and demonstrable propositions: immediate and mediated, intuitive and reasoned judgments Topic 10: The truth and falsity of judgments KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6b(4): Knowledge in relation to the faculties of under- standing, judgment, and reason; and to the work of intuition, imagination, and understanding Topic 10: The growth of human knowledge: the history of man’s progress and failures in the pursuit of knowledge REASONING, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5a: The fact and the reasoned fact: mere belief distin- guished from belief on rational grounds RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Sophist Aristotle, Vol. 7, On the Soul, Bk. III, Chaps. 3–8; Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. VI, Chaps. 3–11 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Apology for Raymond Sebond Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Parts I–IV E U LE R, FAB RE, FARADAY

Syntopical Guide176 Hume, Vol. 33, Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sect. IV, Part II–Sect. V, Part II Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, Introduction James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. X Russell, Vol. 55, Problems of Philosophy, Chaps. XI–XIII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Custom and Education, Vol. 7 Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Dewey, “Process of Thought,” Vol. 10 Erskine, Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Franklin, Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania, Vol. 6 James, W., Will to Believe; Sentiment of Rationality, Vol. 10 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 Swift, Essay on Modern Education, Vol. 7 The Chemical History of a Candle Vol. 8, pages 368–439 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5d: The respiratory system: breathing, lungs, gills CHANGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c: Comparison of change in living and nonliving things Topic 9a: Physical and chemical change: compounds and mixtures MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7a: Light: the corpuscular and the wave theory Topic 7c: The theory of heat RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Gilbert, Vol. 26, On the Loadstone Lavoisier, Vol. 42, Elements of Chemistry, First Part, Chap. V–Second Part RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Curie, Discovery of Radium, Vol. 8 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Epicurus, Letter to Herodotus, Vol. 10 Helmholtz, On the Conservation of Force, Vol. 8 Huxley, On a Piece of Chalk, Vol. 8 Mendeleev, “Genesis of a Law of Nature,” Vol. 8 Santayana, Lucretius, Vol. 10

177 Tyndall, “Michael Faraday,” Vol. 8 Wöhler, On the Artificial Production of Urea, Vol. 8 For Faraday’s Experimental Researches in Electricity in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 42 FRANCIS SCOTT FITZGERALD, 1896–1940 The Diamond as Big as the Ritz Vol. 3, pages 397–431 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7b: The fantastic and the realistic in poetry: the probable and the possible in poetry and history OPINION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6a: Good and evil as matters of opinion: moral standards as customs or conventions reflecting prevalent opinion TYRANNY AND DESPOTISM, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The degeneration of oligarchy: the tyranny of the wealthy VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6c: The relation of virtue to wealth: the religious basis of economic behavior; the work ethic WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 10a: The nature of wealth as a good: its place in the order of goods and its relation to happiness Topic 10b: Natural limits to the acquisition of wealth by individu- als: the distinction between necessities and luxuries RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. III–IV Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto VII Machiavelli, Vol. 21, Prince, Chaps. 16–19 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the inequality that is between us Molière, Vol. 31, Critique of the School for Wives; Miser Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Dickens, Vol. 47, Little Dorrit Veblen, Vol. 57, Theory of the Leisure Class, Chaps. 1–5 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Riches, Vol. 7 FARADAY, F ITZG E RALD

Syntopical Guide178 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 James, H., Pupil, Vol. 3 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Macaulay, Machiavelli, Vol. 7 Mann, Mario and the Magician, Vol. 3 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 Shaw, Man of Destiny, Vol. 4 Twain, Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, Vol. 2 For Fitzgerald’s Great Gatsby in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 60 GUSTAVE FLAUBERT, 1821–1880 The Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller Vol. 3, pages 371–392 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon FATE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The decrees of fate and the decisions of the gods Topic 2: The fated or inevitable in human life LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic: 5a(2): Beatitude as the fruition of love Topic: 5b(1): The precepts of charity: the law of love Topic: 5b(2): The theological virtue of charity: its relation to the other virtues SIN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4e: The prevention and purging of sin: purification by sacri- fice; the sacrament of penance; contrition, confession, and absolution; excommunication Topic 7: Grace and good works in relation to salvation from sin: justification by faith alone RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Oedipus the King Euripides, Vol. 4, Orestes Plutarch, Vol. 13, Alexander Augustine, Vol. 16, Confessions, Bk. IX Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Paradiso, Cantos XXVI–XXXIII

179 Calvin, Vol. 20, Institutes of the Christian Religion, Book Third, Chaps. III–V O’Neill, Vol. 60, Mourning Becomes Electra RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Bacon, Of Adversity; Of Anger, Vol. 10 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 De Quincey, On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth, Vol. 5 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 Huxley, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, Vol. 8 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 Lincoln, Meditation on the Divine Will, Vol. 6 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Poe, Tell-Tale Heart; Masque of the Red Death, Vol. 2 Scott, Two Drovers, Vol. 2 Shaw, Man of Destiny, Vol. 4 Stevenson, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Vol. 2 Tolstoy, What Men Live By, Vol. 3 ANDREW RUSSELL FORSYTH, 1858–1942 Mathematics, in Life and Thought Vol. 9, pages 26–46 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ELEMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic: 5b: Atoms and the void as the ultimate constituents of reality Topic: 5f: The explanation of natural phenomena by reference to the properties and motions of atoms HYPOTHESIS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The foundations of mathematics: postulates, assumptions Topic 4: The role of hypothesis in science MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: The applications of mathematics to physical phenomena: the utility of mathematics MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1a: Matter, mass, and atoms: the primary qualities of bodies F ITZG E RALD, F LAU B E RT, F OR SYTH

Syntopical Guide180 Topic 3: The use of mathematics in mechanics: the dependence of progress in mechanics on mathematical discovery PHYSICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: The relation of the philosophy of nature to mathemat- ics: mathematical method and mathematical principles in natural philosophy Topic 3: Mathematical physics: observation and measurement in relation to mathematical formulations Topic 4: The experimental method in the study of nature SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: Scientific method RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Euclid, Vol. 10, Elements, Bk. I Nicomachus, Vol. 10, Introduction to Arithmetic, Bk. I Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bks. I, VI Copernicus, Vol. 15, On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres Kepler, Vol. 15, Epitome of Copernican Astronomy, Bk. IV Ptolemy, Vol. 15, Almagest, Bk. I Galileo, Vol. 26, Dialogues Concerning the Two New Sciences, Third Day Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Bk. I, Sects, I–II, XI–XIII; Bk. II, Sect. IX; Bk. III Faraday, Vol. 42, Experimental Researches in Electricity Poincaré, Vol. 56, Science and Hypothesis Whitehead, Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chaps. 1–5 Hardy, Vol. 56, Mathematician’s Apology RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bernard, Experimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies, Vol. 8 Campbell, Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science, Vol. 9 Dantzig, Fingerprints, Vol. 9 Dewey, “Process of Thought,” Vol. 10 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Hogben, Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization, Vol. 9 Peirce, Red and the Black, Vol. 9 Russell, Study of Mathematics; Mathematics and the Metaphysicians, Vol. 9 Whitehead, “On Mathematical Method,” Vol. 9

181 BENJAMIN FRANKLIN, 1706–1790 A Proposal for Promoting Useful Knowledge among the British Plantations in America Vol. 6, pages 533–535 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c: Art as the application of science: the productive powers of knowledge KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8a: The technical use of knowledge in the sphere of produc- tion: the applications of science in art PHYSICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: The utility of physics: the invention of machines; the techniques of engineering; the mastery of nature PROGRESS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3c: Man’s progressive conquest of the forces of nature through science and invention SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b(1): The utility of science: the applications of experimen- tal knowledge in the mastery of nature; machinery and inventions Topic 1b(2): The effects of science on human life: the economic and social implications of technology STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7b: The importance of the arts and sciences in political life RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. VII Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book; New Atlantis Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Part VI Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part III Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Fourth Part, Sect. II, Chap. 3 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 2, Part I, Chaps. 9–10 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Jefferson, “Biographical Sketches,” Vol. 6 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 F O R SYTH, F RAN K LI N

Syntopical Guide182 Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania Vol. 6, pages 536–542 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The means and ends of education Topic 1a: The ideal of the educated person Topic 2: The kinds of education: physical, moral, liberal, profes- sional, religious Topic 4d: The effect upon character of poetry, music, and other arts: the role of history and examples FAMILY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6e: The initiation of children into adult life HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: The light and lesson of history: its role in the education of the mind and in the guidance of human conduct RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. II–III Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bks. VII–VIII Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I, Chaps. 14–16, 23– 24; Bk. II, Chap. 8 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the education of children Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, First Book Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Part I Dewey, Vol. 55, Experience and Education RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Bacon, Of Studies, Vol. 5 Faraday, Observations on Mental Education, Vol. 7 Jefferson, “Biographical Sketches,” Vol. 6 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 Swift, Essay on Modern Education, Vol. 7 GALILEO GALILEI, 1564–1642 The Starry Messenger Vol. 8, pages 330–355 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6

183 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ASTRONOMY AND COSMOLOGY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: The method of astronomy Topic 4: Astronomy, cosmology, and theology: astronomy as affecting views of God, creation, the divine plan, and the moral hierarchy Topic 6c: Celestial motion: periodicity and the great year Topic 7: The particular heavenly bodies in the solar system and the Milky Way Topic 11: Astronomy as the study of the universe as a whole: cosmology Topic 13: The history of astronomy MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4a: Terrestrial and celestial mechanics: the mechanics of finite bodies and of atoms or elementary particles Topic 7a(1): The laws of reflection and refraction Topic 7a(4): The medium of light: the ether SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Science as the discipline of experimental inquiry and the organization of experimental knowledge: the sci- entific spirit WORLD, Vol 2, especially Topic 1a: The opposed metaphors: the universe as a machine and the universe as a living organism; the doctrine of the world soul RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, On the Heavens Ptolemy, Vol. 15, Almagest, Bks. I, III Copernicus, Vol. 15, On the Revolutions of the Heavenly Spheres, Intro- duction–Bk. I Kepler, Vol. 15, Epitome of Copernican Astronomy, Bk. IV, Part II–III; Bk. V, Part I Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chaps. IX, XII Eddington, Vol. 56, Expanding Universe RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Boeke, Cosmic View, Vol. 8 Campanella, “Arguments for and against Galileo,” Vol. 8 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Voltaire, Micromégas, Vol. 2 For Galileo’s Dialogues Concerning the Two New Sciences in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 26 F RAN K LI N, GALI LE O

Syntopical Guide184 JOHN GALSWORTHY, 1867–1933 The Apple-Tree Vol. 3, pages 323–367 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3c: Desire and love: their distinction and connection Topic 4a: The conflict of desires with one another EMOTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4a: The conflict between reason and emotion LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1c: The distinction between love and desire: the generous and acquisitive aims Topic 1e: The intensity and power of love: its increase or de- crease; its constructive or destructive force Topic 3b: The demands of love and the restraints of virtue: moder- ation in love; the order of loves MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c: The association of ideas: controlled and free association; reminiscence and reverie RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Phaedrus Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto V Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. III, Chap. 31 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of three kinds of association Shakespeare, Vol. 24, As You Like It; Vol. 25, Troilus and Cressida, Act II, Scene II James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. X Proust, Vol. 59, Swann in Love Mann, Vol. 59, Death in Venice RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Apuleius, “Cupid and Psyche,” Vol. 3 Bacon, Of Youth and Age; Of Marriage and Single Life, Vol. 7; Of Love, Vol. 10 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Chekhov, Darling, Vol. 3 Dostoevsky, White Nights, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Hazlitt, On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth, Vol. 10

185 FRANCIS GALTON, 1822–1911 “The Classification of Human Ability” from Hereditary Genius Vol. 8, pages 227–261 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 10: Heredity and environment: the genetic determination of individual differences and similarities; RNA, DNA, genes, chromosomes, cistrons EVOLUTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2d: Genetic variation in the course of generations: the genetics of populations FAMILY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6b: Eugenics: control of breeding; birth control MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The sciences of human nature: anthropology and psychology; ethnography and ethnology; rational and empirical psychology; experimental and clini- cal psychology Topic 6: The distinctive characteristics of men and women and their differences RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. V Hume, Vol. 33, Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sect. I Darwin, Vol. 49, Descent of Man, Chaps. II, V, VIII James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chaps. VII, XXVIII Schrödinger, Vol. 56, What Is Life? Dobzhansky, Vol. 56, Genetics and the Origin of Species, Chaps. II, IV, VIII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Curie, Discovery of Radium, Vol. 8 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Huxley, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, Vol. 8 James, W., Energies of Men; Great Men and Their Environment, Vol. 7 Laplace, “Probability,” Vol. 9 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Tyndall, “Michael Faraday,” Vol. 8 GALSWO RTHY, GALTO N

Syntopical Guide186 NIKOLAI GOGOL, 1809–1852 The Overcoat Vol. 2, pages 452–478 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(1): The contribution of the goods of fortune to happi- ness: wealth, health, longevity Topic 4a: Man’s capacity for happiness: differences in human nature with respect to happiness STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5c: The classes or subgroups arising from the division of labor or distinctions of birth: the social hierarchy and its causes WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8c: The causes of poverty: competition, incompetence, indigence, expropriation, unemployment; the poverty of the proletariat as dispossessed of the instruments of production WISDOM, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4: The praise of folly: the wisdom of fools and innocents RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Erasmus, Vol. 23, Praise of Folly Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part Two, Chap. 43 Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on Political Economy Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Second Epilogue RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Adversity, Vol. 10 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Singer, Spinoza of Market Street, Vol. 3 Swift, Modest Proposal, Vol. 7 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Tolstoy, Death of Ivan Ilyitch, Vol. 3 Wilde, Happy Prince, Vol. 2

187 GREAT DOCUMENTS The English Bill of Rights Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen The Virginia Declaration of Rights The Declaration of Independence Charter of the United Nations Universal Declaration of Human Rights Vol. 6, pages 409–456 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CITIZEN, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4: The rights, duties, privileges, and immunities of citizenship CONSTITUTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7b: The safeguards of constitutional government: bills of rights; separation of powers; impeachment JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6: Justice and liberty: the theory of human rights Topic 6b: The relation between natural and positive rights, innate and acquired rights, private and public rights: their correlative duties Topic 6c: The inalienability of natural rights: their violation by tyranny and despotism Topic 6e: Justice and natural rights as the source of civil liberty LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4e: The relation of natural law to natural rights and natural justice Topic 7c: The priority of natural to civil law: the inviolability or inalienability of natural rights LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1g: The juridical protection of liberties: bills of rights; the separation of powers RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Antigone Aquinas, Vol. 18, Summa Theologica, Part I–II, Q 95, Art. 2; Q 100, Art. 1 Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part II, Chap. XXI Milton, Vol. 29, Areopagitica Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chap. II Montesquieu, Vol. 35, Spirit of Laws, Bk. I, Chaps. 1–3 Rousseau, Vol. 35, Social Contract, Bk. II, Chaps. 4–5 GO G O L, G REAT D O C U M E NTS

Syntopical Guide188 Kant, Vol. 39, Science of Right, First Part; Second Part Articles of Confederation, Vol. 40 Constitution of the United States of America, Vol. 40 Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, No. 84 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, On Liberty; Utilitarianism, Chap. 5 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part I, Chaps. 6–7; Part II, Chaps. 5–6; Vol. 2, Part IV, Chaps. 6–7 Orwell, Vol. 60, Animal Farm RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Burke, Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol, Vol. 7 Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 Clausewitz, What Is War?, Vol. 7 Crèvecoeur, “Making of Americans,” Vol. 6 Dante, “On World Government,” Vol. 7 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Jefferson, “Virginia Constitution”; First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute; First Inaugural Address; Letter to Horace Greeley; Gettysburg Address, Vol. 6 Paine, “Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776,” Vol. 6 Thoreau, Civil Disobedience, Vol. 6 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Tolstoy, What Men Live By, Vol. 3 Voltaire, “English Men and Ideas,” Vol. 7 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 FRANÇOIS GUIZOT, 1787–1874 “Civilization” from History of Civilization in Europe Vol. 6, pages 302–317 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 12: The history of the arts: progress in art as measuring stages of civilization HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4c: The spirit of the time as conditioning the politics and culture of a period LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6a: The historical significance of freedom: stages in the

189 realization of freedom; the beginning and end of the historical process PROGRESS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6: Intellectual or cultural progress: its sources and impediments; the analogy of cultural progress to biologi- cal evolution RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Introduction; Part II Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, First Book Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, First Part Gibbon, Vol. 37, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Chap. XL; Vol. 38, Chap. LXXI Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, On Liberty, Chaps. 2–3 Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Introduction III Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Introduction; Vol. 2, Part I, Chaps. 9–15 Darwin, Vol. 49, Descent of Man, Chap. V Freud, Vol. 54, Civilization and Its Discontents, Chap. III Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chap. XIII Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. XIX–XXIII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Arnold, Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Sphinx, Vol. 8 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Hume, Of the Standard of Taste, Vol. 5; Of Refinement in the Arts; Of the Study of History, Vol. 7 Jefferson, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Lucian, Way to Write History, Vol. 6 Macaulay, Machiavelli, Vol. 7 J. B. S. HALDANE, 1892–1964 On Being the Right Size Vol. 8, pages 149–154 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b: Analogies of structure and function among different classes of animals Topic 3: The anatomy of animals G R EAT D O C U M E NTS, G U IZOT, HALDAN E

Syntopical Guide190 CHANGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8: Change of size DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5a: The distinction between direct democracy and repre- sentative, or republican, government: the territorial limits of democracy QUANTITY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5d: Mass: its relation to weight RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, History of Animals, Bk. I, Chaps. 1–15; On the Parts of Animals, Bks. II–IV Galileo, Vol. 26, Dialogues Concerning the Two New Sciences, Third Day Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Parts I–II Darwin, Vol. 49, Origin of Species, Chap. VI Waddington, Vol. 56, Nature of Life, Chap. 3 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Boeke, Cosmic View, Vol. 8 Campbell, Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science, Vol. 9 Carson, Sunless Sea, Vol. 8 Fabre, Laboratory of the Open Fields; Sacred Beetle, Vol. 8 NATHANIEL HAWTHORNE, 1804–1864 Rappaccini’s Daughter Vol. 3, pages 128–152 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: Beauty in relation to desire and love, as object or cause EMOTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: Madness or frenzy due to emotional excess: excessively emotional or emotionally overdetermined behavior FAMILY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6d: The care and government of children: the rights and duties of the child; parental despotism and tyranny GOOD AND EVIL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3f: The sources of evil in human life LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7: The causes and occurrence of death: the transition from life to death; homicide

191 MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5b: Abnormalities due to defect or conflict of powers: feeblemindedness, neuroses, insanity, madness RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Euripides, Vol. 4, Electra Shakespeare, Vol. 25, King Lear, Act I Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Second Part, Act I Balzac, Vol. 45, Cousin Bette Lawrence, Vol. 60, Prussian Officer O’Neill, Vol. 60, Mourning Becomes Electra RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Apuleius, “Cupid and Psyche,” Vol. 3 Bacon, Of Parents and Children, Vol. 7; Of Love, Vol. 10 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Mann, Mario and the Magician, Vol. 3 Poe, Tell-Tale Heart; Masque of the Red Death, Vol. 2 Stevenson, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Vol. 2 Turgenev, First Love, Vol. 3 Sketch of Abraham Lincoln Vol. 6, pages 168–171 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ARISTOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6: The selection of the best men for public office: the aristo- cratic theory of representation in modern constitutional government HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4a(4): The role of the individual in history: the great man, hero, or leader HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: The reaction of the community to its good or great men STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8d: Statecraft: the art or science of governing; politi- cal prudence Topic 8d(2): The occasions and uses of rhetoric: propaganda RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. III, Chaps. 10–13 HALDAN E, HAWTH O R N E

Syntopical Guide192 Plutarch, Vol. 13, Pericles Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Henry IV, First Part; King Henry IV, Sec- ond Part Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chap. VIII Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, No. 68 Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Introduction III Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, First Epilogue, Chaps. I–IV; Second Epilogue Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chaps. IV, IX Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6, especially Chap. VI Bacon, Of Great Place, Vol. 7 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Crèvecoeur, “Making of Americans,” Vol. 6 James, W., Great Men and Their Environment, Vol. 7 Jefferson, “Biographical Sketches,” Vol. 6 Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute; First Inaugural Address; Letter to Horace Greeley; Meditation on the Divine Will; Gettysburg Address; Second Inaugural Address; Last Public Address, Vol. 6 Thoreau, Plea for Captain John Brown, Vol. 6 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Woolf, Art of Biography, Vol. 6 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 WILLIAM HAZLITT, 1778–1830 My First Acquaintance with Poets Vol. 5, pages 264–279 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3d: Memory as the muse of poetry and history: the depen- dence of history on the memory of men POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5b: Poetry contrasted with history and philosophy: the dispraise and defense of the poet Topic 8b: Critical standards and artistic rules with respect to the language of poetry: the distinction between prose and verse; the measure of excellence in style

193 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. II–III Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. I James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXII Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan, Preface RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry, Vol. 5 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Some Forms of Literature, Vol. 5 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5 On Swift Vol. 5, pages 280–283 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8b: Critical standards and artistic rules with respect to the language of poetry: the distinction between prose and verse; the measure of excellence in style TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4b: Truth in science and poetry: the truth of fact and the truth of fiction RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. II–III Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of books Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part One, Chaps. 47–50 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Schopenhauer, On Style, Vol. 5 Swift, Resolutions when I Come to Be Old; Essay on Modern Education; Meditation upon a Broomstick; Modest Proposal, Vol. 7 For Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 34 Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen Vol. 5, pages 284–295 HAWTH O R N E, HAZ LIT T

Syntopical Guide194 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7a: Art as a source of pleasure or delight BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: Judgments of beauty: the objective and the subjective in aesthetic judgments or judgments of taste; judgments of style or fashion based on wealth or honor POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The inspiration or genius of the poet: the role of experi- ence or imagination; the influence of the poetic tradition RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Odyssey, Bk. XI Plato, Vol. 6, Ion; Republic, Bk. X Virgil, Vol. 12, Aeneid, Bk. VI Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of books Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I, Bk. I Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXV RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry, Vol. 5 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Hume, Of the Standard of Taste, Vol. 5 Lamb, Dream Children, Vol. 5 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?; Montaigne, Vol. 5 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth Vol. 10, pages 565–570 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon IMMORTALITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The desire for immortality: the fear of death LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8b: The love of life: the instinct of self-preservation; the life instinct RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Symposium; Phaedo Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bk. III passim Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, First Part, Q 75, Art. 6 Montaigne, Vol. 23, That to philosophize is to learn to die

195 James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chaps. XI, XV Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. XI–XII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Bacon, Of Youth and Age, Vol. 7; Of Death, Vol. 10 Browne, “Immortality,” Vol. 10 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 H. L. F. VON HELMHOLTZ, 1821–1894 On the Conservation of Force Vol. 8, pages 451–484 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MECHANICS, Vol. 2 PHYSICS, Vol. 2 QUANTITY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: Physical quantities REASONING, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5b: Scientific reasoning: the theory of demonstration Topic 6c: Inductive and deductive inference in the philosophy of nature and the natural sciences SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b(2): The effects of science on human life: the economic and social implications of technology Topic 3: The relation of science to action and production RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bk. II Galileo, Vol. 26, Dialogues Concerning the Two New Sciences Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy Faraday, Vol. 42, Experimental Researches in Electricity James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXVIII Planck, Vol. 56, Scientific Autobiography RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Campbell, Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science, Vol. 9 HA Z LIT T, H E LM H O LTZ

Syntopical Guide196 Eddington, Running-Down of the Universe, Vol. 8 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Faraday, Chemical History of a Candle, Vol. 8 Santayana, Lucretius, Vol. 10 Tyndall, “Michael Faraday,” Vol. 8 ERNEST HEMINGWAY, 1899–1961 The Killers Vol. 2, pages 169–177 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 10c: The justice of punishment for unjust acts: the distinc- tion between retribution and vengeance LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6e(1): The nature and causes of crime Topic 6e(3): The punishment of crime LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8d: The fear of death: the attitude of the hero, the philoso- pher, the poet, the martyr PUNISHMENT, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: The retributive purpose of punishment: the lex talionis; retaliation and revenge; the righting of a wrong RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aeschylus, Vol. 4, Eumenides Sophocles, Vol. 4, Electra Euripides, Vol. 4, Orestes Plato, Vol. 6, Apology Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Richard III; Vol. 25, Measure for Measure; Macbeth Milton, Vol. 29, Paradise Lost, Bk. III Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of Right, First Part Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chap. 36 O’Neill, Vol. 60, Mourning Becomes Electra RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Death, Vol. 10 De Quincey, On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth, Vol. 5 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Fitzgerald, Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Vol. 3

197 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Hugo, “Battle with the Cannon,” Vol. 2 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Poe, Tell-Tale Heart; Masque of the Red Death, Vol. 2 Scott, Two Drovers, Vol. 2 Tolstoy, Death of Ivan Ilyitch, Vol. 3 Twain, Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, Vol. 2 For Hemingway’s Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 60 LANCELOT HOGBEN, 1895–1975 Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization Vol. 9, pages 3–23 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon INFINITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: Number: the infinite of division and addition Topic 3b: The infinite divisibility of continuous quantities: the infinitesimal; the method of exhaustion and the the- ory of limits Topic 4b: The infinite divisibility of matter: the issue concerning atoms or elementary particles MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: The applications of mathematics to physical phenomena: the utility of mathematics QUANTITY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6: The measurements of quantities: the relation of magni- tudes and multitudes; the units of measurement Topic 7: Infinite quantity: the actual infinite and the potentially infinite quantity; the mathematical and physical infinite of the great and the small RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Parmenides; Timaeus Descartes, Vol. 28, Geometry, Bk. II Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Bk. III Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason, Introduction James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXVIII Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chap. II; Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chaps. 1–3 Hardy, Vol. 56, Mathematician’s Apology H E LM H O LTZ, H E M I N GWAY, H O G B E N

Syntopical Guide198 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Dantzig, Fingerprints; Empty Column, Vol. 9 Forsyth, Mathematics, in Life and Thought, Vol. 9 Kasner and Newman, New Names for Old; Beyond the Googol, Vol. 9 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Russell, Study of Mathematics; Mathematics and the Metaphysicians, Vol. 9 Whitehead, “On Mathematical Method,” Vol. 9 VICTOR HUGO, 1802–1885 “The Battle with the Cannon” from Ninety-Three Vol. 2, pages 146–154 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CITIZEN, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The individual in relation to the state Topic 2b: The distinction between citizen and subject: the distinc- tion between the subjects of a constitutional monarchy and of a despotism JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1c: Justice as a moral virtue directing activity in relation to others and to the community: the distinction between the just man and the just act Topic 10d: The correction of legal justice: equity in the applica- tion of human law PUNISHMENT, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: Personal responsibility as a condition of just punishment: the problem of collective responsibility Topic 4b: The forms of punishment available to the state Topic 4b(1): The death penalty: its justification REVOLUTION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1c: Revolution and counterrevolution: civil strife distin- guished from war between states Topic 2a: Change in the form of government or constitution Topic 3b: Ways of retaining power: the suppression and subver- sion of revolutions by tyrants, despots, and totalitarian states Topic 3c: The causes and effects of revolution under different forms of government Topic 3c(3): Rebellion against tyranny and despotism

199 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Ajax Plato, Vol. 6, Gorgias; Republic, Bks. I–II Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, First Part, Q 21; Vol. 18, Part I–II, Q 60, Art. 3; Q 100, Art. 12 Milton, Vol. 29, Paradise Lost, Bks. I–II Freud, Vol. 54, Thoughts for the Times on War and Death Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan Brecht, Vol. 60, Mother Courage and Her Children RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Seditions and Troubles, Vol. 7; Of Adversity, Vol. 10 Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 Paine, “Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776,” Vol. 6 Scott, Two Drovers, Vol. 2 DAVID HUME, 1711–1776 Of the Standard of Taste Vol. 5, pages 103–119 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7b: The judgment of excellence in art BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: Judgments of beauty: the objective and the subjective in aesthetic judgments or judgments of taste; judgments of style or fashion based on wealth or honor GOOD AND EVIL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: Human nature and the determination of the good for man: the real and the apparent good; particular goods and the good in general OPINION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6a: Good and evil as matters of opinion: moral standards as customs or conventions reflecting prevalent opinion H O G B E N, H UG O, H U M E

Syntopical Guide200 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, First Part, Q 5, Arts. 3–4; Part I– II, Q 27, Art. 1 Montaigne, Vol. 23, That the taste of good and evil depends in large part on the opinion we have of them Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Parts II–III Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part I, Appendix Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. 1; Sect. VI Voltaire, Vol. 34, Candide Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement Veblen, Vol. 57, Theory of the Leisure Class, Chaps. 6–7 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Of Beauty, Vol. 5 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Hazlitt, Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen, Vol. 5 Lamb, My First Play, Vol. 5 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On the Comparative Place of Interest and Beauty in Works of Art, Vol. 5 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5 Of Refinement in the Arts Vol. 7, pages 52–61 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 9b: The production of wealth: the industrial arts LABOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1b: Labor, leisure, and happiness: the servile, political, and contemplative life Topic 1e: The honor of work and the virtue of productivity: progress through the invention of arts for the con- quest of nature Topic 6: The wages of labor: kinds of wage payments NECESSITY AND CONTINGENCY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5e: Economic necessities or luxuries PROGRESS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: Economic progress TEMPERANCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5b: The temperance of a people: luxurious indulgences; the intemperance of the mob

201 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. II Aristotle, Vol. 7, Metaphysics, Bk. I, Chap. 1; Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. VII, Chaps. 1–9 Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bk. V Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. I, Chaps. I, X; Bk. III; Bk. IV, Chap. IX Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 2, Part I, Chap. 11; Part II, Chaps. 10–11 Marx, Vol. 50, Capital, Part III, Chaps. VIII–IX; Part IV, Chaps. XIV–XV Veblen, Vol. 57, Theory of the Leisure Class, Chaps. 6–7 Tawney, Vol. 57, Acquisitive Society RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Crèvecoeur, “Making of Americans,” Vol. 6 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Hogben, Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization, Vol. 9 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 Of Money Vol. 7, pages 62–71 Of the Balance of Trade Vol. 7, pages 72–84 Of Taxes Vol. 7, pages 85–88 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon LABOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The organization of production: the position of labor in different economies Topic 6: The wages of labor: kinds of wage payments PROGRESS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: Economic progress STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2d: The economic aspect of the state: differentiation of states according to their economic systems Topic 7a: Wealth and political welfare Topic 9a: Commerce and trade between states: commercial rival- ries and trade agreements; free trade and tariffs WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially H U M E

Syntopical Guide202 Topic 3: The production of wealth in the political community Topic 4: The exchange of wealth or the circulation of commodi- ties: the processes of commerce or trade Topic 5: Money Topic 9: Political economy: the nature of the science of economics RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. II Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. I, Chaps. 9–10 Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on Political Economy Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. I, Chaps. I–V, VIII; Bk. II, Chap. II; Bk. IV, Chap. IX Marx, Vol. 50, Capital, Part I, Chaps. I–III; Part IV, Chap. XIV Veblen, Vol. 57, Theory of the Leisure Class, Chaps. 4–7 Tawney, Vol. 57, Acquisitive Society, Chaps. 4–11 Keynes, Vol. 57, General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Bacon, Of Usury; Of Riches, Vol. 7 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Burke, Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol, Vol. 7 Of the Study of History Vol. 7, pages 89–92 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4d: The effect upon character of poetry, music, and other arts: the role of history and examples HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: The light and lesson of history: its role in the education of the mind and in the guidance of human conduct RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bk. III Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics, Chaps. 9, 23 Plutarch, Vol. 13, Pericles Machiavelli, Vol. 21, Prince, Chaps. XV–XXI Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of books Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. V, Chap. I, Art. II Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 18–20 Voltaire, “English Men and Ideas: On Trade,” Vol. 7

203 Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Parts Seven and Eight Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Second Epilogue Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part IV, Bk. X, Chap. 5 Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan, Preface RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bury, Herodotus, Vol. 6 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Lucian, Way to Write History, Vol. 6 Macaulay, Machiavelli, Vol. 7 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5 For Hume’s Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 33 THOMAS HENRY HUXLEY, 1825–1895 On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals Vol. 8, pages 160–204 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1c: The distinction between animal and human nature Topic 2: The classification of animals EVOLUTION, Vol. 1 MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1c: The conception of man as an animal, differing only in degree of intelligence and of other qualities possessed by other animals Topic 4a: Man’s vegetative powers: comparison with similar functions in plants and animals Topic 4b: Man’s sensitive and appetitive powers: comparison with similar functions in other animals Topic 8: The origin or genealogy of man Topic 10e: Man’s comparison of himself with other creatures and with the universe as a whole NATURE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1c: Nature as the complex of the objects of sense: the realm of things existing under the determination of universal laws H U M E, H UX LEY

Syntopical Guide204 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, History of Animals Montaigne, Vol. 23, Apology for Raymond Sebond Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part IV Darwin, Vol. 49, Origin of Species; Descent of Man James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chaps. XXII, XXIV Freud, Vol. 54, Beyond the Pleasure Principle Dobzhansky, Vol. 56, Genetics and the Origin of Species, Chap. X Waddington, Vol. 56, Nature of Life, Chaps. 4–5 Kafka, Vol. 60, Metamorphosis RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Bernard, Experimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies, Vol. 8 Carson, Sunless Sea, Vol. 8 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Eiseley, “On Time,” Vol. 8 Emerson, Nature, Vol. 10 Fabre, Laboratory of the Open Fields; Sacred Beetle, Vol. 8 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Galton, “Classification of Human Ability,” Vol. 8 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 Mill, J. S., Nature, Vol. 10 Pavlov, Scientific Study of the So-Called Psychical Processes in the Higher Animals, Vol. 8 On a Piece of Chalk Vol. 8, pages 205–222 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CHANGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c: Comparison of change in living and nonliving things Topic 9a: Physical and chemical change: compounds and mixtures EVOLUTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The facts of evolution: evidences bearing on the history of life on earth SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Science as the discipline of experimental inquiry and the organization of experimental knowledge: the sci- entific spirit

205 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Darwin, Vol. 49, Origin of Species, Chaps. III–IV, X–XIII, XV Schrödinger, Vol. 56, What Is Life?, Chap. 7 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Carson, Sunless Sea, Vol. 8 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Eiseley, “On Time,” Vol. 8 Faraday, Chemical History of a Candle, Vol. 8 Lyell, “Geological Evolution,” Vol. 8 HENRIK IBSEN, 1828–1906 An Enemy of the People Vol. 4, pages 164–246 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon COURAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7a: The courage required of citizens and statesmen: the political recognition of courage DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2a: The tyranny of the majority: lawless mob rule HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: The reaction of the community to its good or great men TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8b: The expediency of the political lie: the uses of lying RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Oedipus the King; Philoctetes Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. IV Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of presumption Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 10, 51 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chaps. 6–7 Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part II, Chaps. 7–8 Twain, Vol. 48, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn, Chaps. 21–22 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Adversity, Vol. 10 Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 Calhoun, “Concurrent Majority,” Vol. 7 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 H U X L E Y, I B S E N

Syntopical Guide206 Chekhov, Cherry Orchard, Vol. 4 Emerson, Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 Thoreau, Civil Disobedience, Vol. 6 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 For Ibsen’s Doll’s House, Wild Duck, Hedda Gabler, and Master Builder in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 52 HENRY JAMES, 1843–1916 The Pupil Vol. 3, pages 530–568 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CUSTOM AND CONVENTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5a: The conventional determination of moral judgments: the moral evaluation of conventions DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7a(3): The accumulation of wealth EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: The influence of the family in moral training FAMILY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6e: The initiation of children into adult life TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8c: Truth and falsehood in relation to love and friendship: the pleasant and the unpleasant truth WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 10c: Temperance and intemperance with respect to wealth: liberality, magnificence, miserliness, avarice; the corrupting influence of excessive wealth Topic 10e(3): The choice between God and Mammon: the love of money as the root of all evil: the secularizing impact of affluence RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol.6, Laws, Bk. VII Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the education of children Dickens, Vol. 47, Little Dorrit Fitzgerald, Vol. 60, Great Gatsby Voltaire, “English Men and Ideas: On Inoculation,” Vol. 7

207 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Riches, Vol. 7 Fitzgerald, Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Vol. 3 Franklin, Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania, Vol. 6 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Twain, Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, Vol. 2 For Henry James’s Beast in the Jungle in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 59 WILLIAM JAMES, 1842–1910 On a Certain Blindness in Human Beings Vol. 7, pages 141–156 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: Immediate self-consciousness: man’s intimate or intro- spective knowledge of himself Topic 10e: Man’s comparison of himself with other creatures and with the universe as a whole MIND, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1d(1): The origin of the mind’s simple ideas: sensation and reflection PLEASURE AND PAIN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4b: Sensuous pleasure: the affective quality of sensations Topic 4c: Intellectual pleasure: the pleasures of reflection and contemplation SENSE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3d(2): Memory and imagination as interior powers of sense Topic 6: The role of sense in the perception of beauty: the beautiful and the pleasing to sense; sensible and intelli- gible beauty RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Philebus Aristotle, Vol. 8, Rhetoric, Bk. I, Chap. 11 Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, Part I–II, Q 11 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of experience Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. II I B S E N, H. JAM E S, W. JAM E S

Syntopical Guide208 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 12, Chaps. XII–XIII; Bk. 13, Chaps. XI–XII, XIV; Bk. 14, Chaps. XII–XV; Bk. 15, Chaps. XII–XIII Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part II, Bk. VI James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XI RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Schopenhauer, On the Comparative Place of Interest and Beauty in Works of Art, Vol. 5 The Energies of Men Vol. 7, pages 157–170 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2c: Desire as a cause of action: motivation, purpose, ambi- tion; voluntariness MIND, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c(2): The influence of mental activity on bodily states WILL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The functioning of will in human conduct and thought Topic 3a: The role of the will in behavior Topic 9a: The distinction between men of strong and weak will: cultivation of willpower RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, Part I–II, Q 17 Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Parts Two and Nine Ibsen, Vol. 52, Master Builder James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXVII Freud, Vol. 54, Selected Papers on Hysteria, Chaps. 1–3 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Adversity, Vol. 10 Crane, Open Boat, Vol. 3 Curie, Discovery of Radium, Vol. 8 Galton, “Classification of Human Ability,” Vol. 8 Hugo, “Battle with the Cannon,” Vol. 2 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Great Men and Their Environment Vol. 7, pages 171–194

209 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 10: Heredity and environment: the genetic determination of individual differences and similarities; RNA, DNA, genes, chromosomes, cistrons Topic 11b: The relation between animals and their environments EVOLUTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b: The process of heredity Topic 2b(1): The inheritance of acquired characteristics: the use and disuse of parts FATE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: The fated or inevitable in human life HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4a(4): The role of the individual in history: the great man, hero, or leader STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8c: The education or training of the statesman or prince WILL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7b: The factors of freedom and necessity in the philoso- phy of history RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Herodotus, Vol. 5, History, Bk. VII Plutarch, Vol. 13, Theseus; Pericles Machiavelli, Vol. 21, Prince, Chaps. VI, XXV Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Introduction, Part III Kierkegaard, Vol. 43, Fear and Trembling Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Parts Two and Nine Darwin, Vol. 49, Descent of Man, Part I, Chap. II Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 9, Chap. I; Bk. 13; First Epilogue, Chaps. I–IV; Second Epilogue Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chaps. IV, IX RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Great Place, Vol. 7 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Galton, “Classification of Human Ability,” Vol. 8 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Hazlitt, Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen, Vol. 5 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Shaw, Man of Destiny, Vol. 4 W. JAM E S

Syntopical Guide210 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 The Will to Believe Vol. 10, pages 39–57 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HYPOTHESIS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: Hypothetical reasoning and hypothetical constructions in philosophy KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c(4): The distinction between a priori and a posteriori knowledge; the transcendental, or speculative, and the empirical OPINION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The will as cause of assent in acts of opinion WILL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3b(1): The distinction between knowledge and opinion in relation to the willful in thought: the will to believe and wishful thinking Topic 5a(1): The freedom of the will as consisting in a freely determined choice or a free judgment of the reason RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Parts II–IV Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part I, Prop. 34-Appendix; Part II, Props. 48–49 Pascal, Vol. 30, Provincial Letters, Letter XVIII; Pensées, Sects. III–IV Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Human Understanding, Bk. II, Chap. XXI; Bk. IV, Chap. XIX Hume, Vol. 33, Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sect. IV– Sect. V, Part I; Sects. X–XI Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason, Introduction Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part II, Bk. V, Chaps. 3–5; Part III, Bk. VII, Chaps. 1–2, 4; Part IV, Bk. XI, Chaps. 4, 9 Freud, Vol. 54, Civilization and Its Discontents, Parts I–II; New Introduc- tory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis, Lecture 35 Russell, Vol. 55, Problems of Philosophy, Chap. VII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Truth, Vol. 10 Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Dewey, “Process of Thought,” Vol. 10 Emerson, Montaigne; or, the Skeptic, Vol. 10

211 Erskine, Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Faraday, Observations on Mental Education, Vol. 7 The Sentiment of Rationality Vol. 10, pages 58–87 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: Knowledge, belief, and opinion: their relation or distinction OPINION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3b: Certain and probable, adequate and inadequate knowl- edge: degrees of certitude; modes of assent PHILOSOPHY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3b: The philosopher’s appeal to first principles and to definitions Topic 4c: Philosophy as a moral discipline: the consolation of philosophy Topic 6c: The philosopher as a man of reason: the limits of rea- son; its supplementation by experience or faith PRINCIPLE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: The skeptical denial of first principles or axioms: the denial that any propositions elicit the universal assent of mankind UNIVERSAL AND PARTICULAR, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4c: The abstraction of universal concepts from the particu- lars of sense RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. VI–VII Aristotle, Vol. 7, Metaphysics, Bk. IV; Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. I, Chaps. 1–4, 7–8; Bk. X, Chap. 8 Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Parts I–IV Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part IV, Appendix Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. IV Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Human Understanding, Bk. IV, Chaps. XVII–ZXX Berkeley, Vol. 33, Principles of Human Knowledge, Introduction Hume, Vol. 33, Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sect. XII, Parts I–III Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason; Critique of Judgement, Part II Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One; Part Two, Act II Darwin, Vol. 49, Descent of Man, Part I, Chaps. III–V W. JAM E S

Syntopical Guide212 Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part II, Bk. V, Chaps. 3–4; Part III, Bk. VII, Chaps. 2, 4 Russell, Vol. 55, Problems of Philosophy, Chaps. XIII–XIV Planck, Vol. 56, Scientific Autobiography RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Dewey, “Process of Thought,” Vol. 10 Faraday, Observations on Mental Education, Vol. 7 Mill, J. S., Nature, Vol. 10 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 For James’s Principles of Psychology in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 53; for James’s Pragmatism, see Vol. 55 SIR JAMES JEANS, 1877–1946 Beginnings and Endings Vol. 8, pages 585–596 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CHANGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The measure of motion Topic 13: The problem of the eternity of motion or change MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6g: Work and energy: their conservation; perpetual motion; their relation to mass; the principle of least action PROGRESS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6b: Progress in philosophy and in the sciences SPACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: Space, void, and motion TIME, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c: The creation of time: the priority of eternity to time; the immutability of the world after the end of time WORLD, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1a: The opposed metaphors: the universe as a machine and the universe as a living organism; the doctrine of the world soul RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, Physics, Bk. VIII Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bks. I–II

213 Augustine, Vol. 16, Confessions, Bk. XII Aquinas, Vol. 18, Summa Theologica, Treatise on the Last Things Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Bk. III Faraday, Vol. 42, Experimental Researches in Electricity Einstein, Vol. 56, Relativity: The Special and the General Theory Eddington, Vol. 56, Expanding Universe Heisenberg, Vol. 56, Physics and Philosophy, Chaps. 6–7 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Eddington, Running-Down of the Universe, Vol. 8 Eiseley, “On Time,” Vol. 8 Santayana, Lucretius, Vol. 10 THOMAS JEFFERSON, 1743–1826 “The Virginia Constitution” from Notes on Virginia Vol. 6, pages 502–517 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: The democratic realization of popular sovereignty: the safeguarding of natural rights Topic 4c: The infirmities of democracy in practice and the re- forms or remedies for these defects Topic 5b(1): Majority rule and minority or proportional representation Topic 5c: The distribution of functions and powers: checks and balances in representative democracy; the uses of patronage LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c: The struggle for sovereign independence against the yoke of imperialism or colonial subjugation RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bk. VI Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. III, Chaps. 6–13 Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chaps. XII–XIII Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, No. 45 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chaps. 6–7, 12–13 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part I, Chaps. 4–5; Part II, Chaps. 5, 7–9; Vol. 2, Part IV, Chaps. 6–7 W. JAM E S, J EAN S, J E F F E R S O N

Syntopical Guide214 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Burke, Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol, Vol. 7 Calhoun, “Concurrent Majority,” Vol. 7 Great Documents, Virginia Declaration of Rights; Declaration of Inde- pendence, Vol. 6 Lincoln, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Thoreau, Civil Disobedience, Vol. 6 Washington, Farewell Address, Vol. 6 First Inaugural Address Vol. 6, pages 518–521 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: The democratic realization of popular sovereignty: the safeguarding of natural rights Topic 5b(1): Majority rule and minority or proportional representation GOVERNMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5d: Confederation and federal union: the division of juris- diction between state and federal governments LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: The birthright of freedom Topic 2b: Liberty of conscience and religious freedom RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bk. III Locke, Vol. 33, Letter Concerning Toleration Kant, Vol. 39, Science of Right, Second Part Articles of Confederation, Vol. 40 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part I, Chaps. 2, 8; Part II, Chap. 10 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Burke, Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol, Vol. 7 Crèvecoeur, “Making of Americans,” Vol. 6 Great Documents, Vol. 6 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Lincoln, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Paine, “Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776,” Vol. 6 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Washington, Farewell Address, Vol. 6

215 Biographical Sketches Vol. 6, pages 522–528 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The relation of honor and fame: praise and reputation JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 9b: Justice as the moral principle of political organization: the bond of men in states PRUDENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1: The nature of prudence: as practical wisdom, as a virtue or quality of the deliberative mind RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plutarch, Vol. 13, Solon; Pericles; Marcus Cato; Alexander; Caesar Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 La Bruyère, Characters, Vol. 6 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Washington, Circular Letter to the Governors of All the States on Dis- banding the Army; Farewell Address, Vol. 6 Woolf, Art of Biography, Vol. 6 SAMUEL JOHNSON, 1709–1784 Preface to Shakespeare Vol. 5, pages 316–353 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The sources of art in experience, imagination, and inspiration MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7a: The use of imagination in the production and apprecia- tion of works of art POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The inspiration or genius of the poet: the role of J E F F E R S O N, J O H N S O N

Syntopical Guide216 experience and imagination; the influence of the po- etic tradition Topic 4a: Epic and dramatic poetry Topic 8a(1): The poetic unities: comparison of epic and dra- matic unity Topic 8a(2): Poetic truth: verisimilitude or plausibility; the possi- ble, the probable, and the necessary RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. III Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part One, Chap. 48; Part Two, Chap. 16 Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Pirandello, Vol. 59, Six Characters in Search of an Author Joyce, Vol. 59, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry, Vol. 5 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power; On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth, Vol. 5 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Lamb, My First Play, Vol. 5 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Some Forms of Literature, Vol. 5 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5 For the works of Shakespeare in Great Books of the Western World, see Vols. 24–25 For Boswell’s Life of Samuel Johnson in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 41 IMMANUEL KANT, 1724–1804 Perpetual Peace Vol. 7, pages 441–475 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CONSTITUTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2a: The constitution as the form or organization of a political community: arrangement of offices; division of functions DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially

217 Topic 5a: The distinction between direct democracy and repre- sentative, or republican, government: the territorial limits of democracy GOVERNMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2e: The ideal form of government: the distinction between practicable and Utopian ideals Topic 5a: Foreign policy: the making of treaties; the conduct of war and peace STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 9d: The sovereignty of independent states: the distinction between the sovereignty of the state at home and abroad; internal and external sovereignty WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: Civil war and war between states or international war Topic 9: The folly and futility of war: pacifist movements Topic 11b: Justice and fraternity as principles of peace among men Topic 11c: International law and international peace: treaties, alliances, and leagues as instrumentalities of interna- tional peace Topic 11d: World government and world peace RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. II–VII Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. III, Chaps. 1–5 Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part I, Chaps. 13–15 Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I, Chaps. 25–51 Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chap. XVI Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 3–9 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chaps. 17–18 Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of Right, Third Part, Sub-sect. III Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 2, Part III, Chaps. 22–26 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 6, Chap. VII; Bk. 9, Chaps. I–VII; First Epilogue, Chaps. I–IV Freud, Vol. 54, Thoughts for the Times on War and Death Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. VI RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Clausewitz, What Is War?, Vol. 7 Dante, “On World Government,” Vol. 7 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Rousseau, Lasting Peace through the Federation of Europe, Vol. 7 J O H N S O N, KANT

Syntopical Guide218 For other works by Kant in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 39, especially Science of Right EDWARD KASNER, 1878–1955 and JAMES R. NEWMAN, 1907–1966 New Names for Old Beyond the Googol Vol. 9, pages 121–162 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CHANGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The nature and reality of change or motion Topic 5: The measure of motion Topic 7d: The properties of variable motion: the laws of motion INFINITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The infinite in quantity: infinite magnitudes and multitudes Topic 4: The infinity of matter LOGIC, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5a: Mathematical analysis and reasoning: the search for a universal method MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: The objects of mathematics: ideas or abstractions; num- ber, figure, extension, relation, order Topic 2b: The being of mathematical objects: their real, ideal, or mental existence Topic 3d: Symbols and formulas: the attainment of generality Topic 4: Mathematical techniques QUANTITY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4: Discrete quantities: number and numbering SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The comparison of science with poetry and history RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Parmenides Aristotle, Vol. 7, Physics, Bk. IV, Chaps. 10–14; Bk. VI, Chaps. 1–10 Euclid, Vol. 10, Elements, Bks. I–II, X, XII Archimedes, Vol. 10, Sand-Reckoner Descartes, Vol. 28, Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rules XIV–XXI Pascal, Vol. 30, On Geometrical Demonstration

219 Berkeley, Vol. 33, Principles of Human Knowledge Whitehead, Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chaps. 5–6 Hardy, Vol. 56, Mathematician’s Apology Heisenberg, Vol. 56, Physics and Philosophy, Chap. 10 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Boeke, Cosmic View, Vol. 8 Campbell, Measurement, Vol. 9 Dantzig, Fingerprints; Empty Column, Vol. 9 Hogben, Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization, Vol. 9 Russell, Definition of Number; Mathematics and the Metaphysicians, Vol. 9 RUDYARD KIPLING, 1865–1936 Mowgli’s Brothers Vol. 2, pages 126–141 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: General theories about the animal nature Topic 12c: Friendship or love between animals and men Topic 13: The attribution of human qualities or virtues to animals: personification in allegory and satire; the transforma- tion of humans into animals COURAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6: The formation or training of the courageous man CUSTOM AND CONVENTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7a: Custom as unifying a community: conformity in man- ners or etiquette EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The training of the body and the cultivation of bodily skills: gymnastics, manual work RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Odyssey, Bk. XVII Aristotle, Vol. 8, History of Animals, Bk. IX, Chap. 1 Plutarch, Vol. 13, Romulus Milton, Vol. 29, Paradise Lost, Bks. IV, VIII Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part IV Darwin, Vol. 49, Origin of Species; Descent of Man KANT, KA S N E R AN D N EWMAN, K I P LI N G

Syntopical Guide220 Kafka, Vol. 60, Metamorphosis Orwell, Vol. 60, Animal Farm RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Custom and Education, Vol. 7; Of Friendship, Vol. 10 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Cicero, On Friendship, Vol. 10 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Fabre, Laboratory of the Open Fields, Vol. 8 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Huxley, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, Vol. 8 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 JEAN DE LA BRUYÈRE, 1645–1696 Characters Vol. 6, pages 102–105 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ARISTOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The causes of degeneration or instability in aristocracies: aristocracy and revolution CUSTOM AND CONVENTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: Custom and convention in the moral order Topic 5a: The conventional determination of moral judgments: the moral evaluation of conventions HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: The light and lesson of history: its role in the education of the mind and in the guidance of human conduct HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The relation of honor and fame: praise and reputation VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 9: The advance or decline of human morality RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bks. III–IV Augustine, Vol. 16, City of God, Bk. V, Chaps. 12–20 Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part I, Chap. IV; Part II, Chap. VII Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Introduction III Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, First Epilogue, Chaps. XIII–XIV

221 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Great Place, Vol. 7; Of Followers and Friends; Of Riches; Of Friendship, Vol. 10 Chekhov, Cherry Orchard, Vol. 4 Cicero, On Friendship, Vol. 10 Jefferson, Biographical Sketches, Vol. 6 Molière, Misanthrope, Vol. 4 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 Sheridan, School for Scandal, Vol. 4 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 CHARLES LAMB, 1775–1834 My First Play Vol. 5, pages 300–303 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7a: Art as a source of pleasure or delight KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6b(4): Knowledge in relation to the faculties of under- standing, judgment, and reason; and to the work of intuition, imagination, and understanding MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7a: The use of imagination in the production and apprecia- tion of works of art POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7d: Spectacle and song in drama RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics Shakespeare, Vol. 25, Hamlet Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part One, Chap. 48 Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, Introduction; First Part, Sect. I, Bk. I Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Prelude in the Theatre Freud, Vol. 54, Civilization and Its Discontents, Chap. II Pirandello, Vol. 59, Six Characters in Search of an Author RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books De Quincey, On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth, Vol. 5 Hume, Of the Standard of Taste, Vol. 5 K I P LI N G, LA B RUYÈR E, LAM B

Syntopical Guide222 Johnson, Preface to Shakespeare, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Some Forms of Literature, Vol. 5 Dream Children, a Reverie Vol. 5, pages 304–307 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4a: Memory in the life of the individual: personal identity and continuity Topic 8c: The expression of desire in daydreaming or fantasy SENSE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3d(2): Memory and imagination as interior powers of sense RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, On Memory and Reminiscence Plotinus, Vol. 11, Fourth Ennead, Third Tractate Virgil, Vol. 12, Aeneid, Bk. VI Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. II Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Human Understanding, Bk. II, Chap. XXVII Freud, Vol. 54, Interpretation of Dreams RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Youth and Age, Vol. 7 Dostoevsky, White Nights, Vol. 3 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Hazlitt, Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen, Vol. 5 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Wilde, Happy Prince, Vol. 2 Sanity of True Genius Vol. 5, pages 308–310 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The sources of art in experience, imagination, and inspiration POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The inspiration or genius of the poet: the role of experience and imagination; the influence of the po- etic tradition Topic 5b: Poetry contrasted with history and philosophy: the dispraise and defense of the poet

223 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Ion Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXII Mann, Vol. 59, Death in Venice Joyce, Vol. 59, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry, Vol. 5 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6; Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Hazlitt, My First Acquaintance with Poets, Vol. 5 Poe, Tell-Tale Heart, Vol. 2 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 Whitman, Preface to Leaves of Grass, Vol. 5 PIERRE SIMON DE LAPLACE, 1749–1827 “Probability” from A Philosophical Essay on Probabilities Vol. 9, pages 325–338 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CAUSE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5d: The limits of our knowledge of causes CHANCE, Vol. 1 KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: Knowledge, belief, and opinion: their relation or distinction NECESSITY AND CONTINGENCY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: Necessity and contingency in the realm of change: chance and determinism RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, Physics, Bk. II, Chaps. 4–6 Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. III; Correspondence with Fermat on the Theory of Probabilities Hume, Vol. 33, Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sect. VI Bohr, Vol. 56, Atomic Theory and the Description of Nature Heisenberg, Vol. 56, Physics and Philosophy LAM B, LAP LAC E

Syntopical Guide224 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Faraday, Observations on Mental Education, Vol. 7 Galton, “Classification of Human Ability,” Vol. 8 Peirce, Red and the Black, Vol. 9 Poincaré, Chance, Vol. 9 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 DAVID HERBERT LAWRENCE, 1885–1930 The Rocking-Horse Winner Vol. 3, pages 512–525 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EMOTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: Madness or frenzy due to emotional excess: excessively emotional or emotionally overdetermined behavior FAMILY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7d: The emotional impact of family life upon the child: the domestic triangle, the symbolic roles of father and mother LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1e: The intensity and power of love: its increase or de- crease; its constructive or destructive force WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 10c: Temperance and intemperance with respect to wealth: liberality, magnificence, miserliness, avarice; the corrupting influence of excessive wealth RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Euripides, Vol. 4, Hippolytus Shakespeare, Vol. 25, Hamlet Dickens, Vol. 47, Little Dorrit Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part II, Bk. IV, Chaps. 6–7 Ibsen, Vol. 52, Wild Duck Freud, Vol. 54, General Introduction to Psycho-Analysis, Part II, Lecture 13; Part III, Lecture 21 O’Neill, Vol. 60, Mourning Becomes Electra RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Parents and Children; Of Riches, Vol. 7 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3

225 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Fitzgerald, Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 James, H., Pupil, Vol. 3 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 Lamb, Dream Children, Vol. 5 Poe, Tell-Tale Heart, Vol. 2 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 Stevenson, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Vol. 2 Wilde, Happy Prince, Vol. 2 For Lawrence’s Prussian Officer in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 60 ABRAHAM LINCOLN, 1809–1865 Address at Cooper Institute First Inaugural Address Letter to Horace Greeley Second Inaugural Address Last Public Address Vol. 6, pages 737–757; 760–765 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CONSTITUTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7b: The safeguards of constitutional government: bills of rights; separation of powers: impeachment GOVERNMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5d: Confederation and federal union: the division of juris- diction between state and federal governments LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5a: Man’s freedom in relation to fate or to the will of God REVOLUTION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c: Change in the extent of the state or empire: dissolution, secession, liberation, federation SLAVERY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3b: Laws regulating slavery: the rights and duties of mas- ter and slave Topic 3c: The emancipation or manumission of slaves: the rebel- lion of slaves LAP LAC E, LAWR E N C E, LI N C O LN

Syntopical Guide226 Topic 3d: Criticisms of the institution of slavery: the injustice of slavery; its transgression of inalienable human rights STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3g: The identity and continuity of a state: the dissolution of the body politic or civil society WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5a: The moral consequences of war: its effects on the hap- piness and virtue of men and on the welfare of women and children Topic 5b: The political consequences of war: its effects on differ- ent forms of government WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7b(1): Chattel slaves as property RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bks. III, X Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. I, Chaps. 4–7 Aquinas, Vol. 18, Summa Theologica, Part I–II, Q 105, Art. 4 Milton, Vol. 29, Samson Agonistes Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chaps. II–IV, XVI Montesquieu, Vol. 35, Spirit of Laws, Bk. XV, Chaps. 9–18 Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on Political Economy; Social Contract, Bk. I, Chap. 4 Kant, Vol. 39, Science of Right, Introduction; First Part Articles of Confederation, Vol. 40 Constitution of the United States of America, Vol. 40, Amendment 13, Sect. I Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 18–20, 41, 43, 54 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part I, Chaps. 6–7; Part II, Chaps. 9–10; Vol. 2, Part III, Chap. 5 Freud, Vol. 54, Thoughts for the Times on War and Death, Chap. I RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Bacon, Of Seditions and Troubles, Vol. 7 Burke, Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol, Vol. 7 Calhoun, “Concurrent Majority,” Vol. 7 Crèvecoeur, “Making of Americans,” Vol. 6 Great Documents, English Bill of Rights; Virginia Declaration of Rights; Declaration of Independence, Vol. 6 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Jefferson, “Virginia Constitution”; First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Paine, “Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776,” Vol. 6

227 Thoreau, Civil Disobedience; Plea for Captain John Brown, Vol. 6 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Washington, Circular Letter to the Governors of All the States on Dis- banding the Army; Farewell Address, Vol. 6 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Meditation on the Divine Will Vol. 6, page 758 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon GOD, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5g: God’s will: divine choice WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: Civil war and war between states or international war RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, First Part, Q 19 Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Introduction Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Second Epilogue RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Clausewitz, What Is War?, Vol. 7 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 The Gettysburg Address Vol. 6, page 759 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon COURAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7c: Courage in war DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: The democratic realization of popular sovereignty: the safeguarding of natural rights LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1f: The freedom and equals under government: the equality of citizenship WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: Civil war and war between states or international war L I N C O L N

Syntopical Guide228 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Thucydides, Vol. 5, History of the Peloponnesian War, Second Book, Chap. VI Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bk. IV Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. III, Chaps. 16–17 Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part II, Chap. XVIII Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chaps. XI–XIII Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, No. 84 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Great Documents, Declaration of Independence, Vol. 6 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 HANIEL LONG, 1888–1956 The Power within Us Vol. 6, pages 246–261 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon COURAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The motivations of courage: fame or honor, happiness, love, duty, religious faith EXPERIENCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7: Mystical or religious experience: experience of the supernatural or transcendental HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5c: The occasions of heroism in war and peace MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 13: The grandeur and misery of man NATURE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: Nature and convention: the state of nature and the state of society Topic 3c(4): Divine causality in relation to the course of nature: the preservation of nature; providence; miracles and magic RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laches Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. III, Chaps. 6–9 Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part I, Chaps. 13–15

229 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of cannibals Shakespeare, Vol. 25, King Lear, especially Act III Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part IV Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, First–Second Parts; Appendix Freud, Vol. 54, Civilization and Its Discontents, Chaps. III–VIII Frazer, Vol. 58, Golden Bough, Chaps. I–IV Lévi-Strauss, Vol. 58, Structural Anthropology, Chaps. IX–X Conrad, Vol. 59, Heart of Darkness Brecht, Vol. 60, Mother Courage and Her Children RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Great Peace, Vol. 7; Sphinx, Vol. 8; Of Adversity, Vol. 10 Crane, Open Boat, Vol. 3 Defoe, Robinson Crusoe, Vol. 2 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 Emerson, Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Hazlitt, On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth, Vol. 10 James, W., Energies of Men, Vol. 7 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Prescott, “Land of Montezuma,” Vol. 6 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Tolstoy, Three Hermits; What Men Live By, Vol. 3 Xenophon, “March to the Sea,” Vol. 6 LUCIAN, c. 125–c. 190 The Way to Write History Vol. 6, pages 387–406 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4d: The effect upon character of poetry, music, and other arts: the role of history and examples HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: History as knowledge and as literature: its kinds and divisions; its distinction from poetry, myth, philosophy, and science Topic 3: The writing of history: research and narration; the influ- ence of poetry LI N C OLN, LON G, LUC IAN

Syntopical Guide230 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Herodotus, Vol. 5, History, First Book; Second Book Thucydides, Vol. 5, History of the Peloponnesian War, First Book, Chap. I Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. II–III, X Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics, Chap. 9 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of books Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Introduction II–III Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Parts Eight and Nine Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chaps. 45, 82–83 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Second Epilogue Lévi-Strauss, Vol. 58, Structural Anthropology, Introduction Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan, Preface RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bury, Herodotus, Vol. 6 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Hume, Of the Study of History, Vol. 7 Voltaire, Micromégas, Vol. 2 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5; Art of Biography, Vol. 6 SIR CHARLES LYELL, 1797–1875 “Geological Evolution” from The Principles of Geology Vol. 8, pages 319–324 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CHANGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 11: The apprehension of change: by sense, by reason Topic 13: The problem of the eternity of motion or change EVOLUTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5a: The geological record: the significance of fossil remains TIME, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6e: Knowledge of the past: the storehouse of memory; the evidences of the past in physical traces or remnants RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, Physics, Bk. VIII Gilbert, Vol. 26, On the Loadstone, Bk. VI Darwin, Vol. 49, Origin of Species, Chaps. X–XI, XV

231 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Carson, Sunless Sea, Vol. 8 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Eiseley, “On Time,” Vol. 8 Huxley, On a Piece of Chalk, Vol. 8 Pliny, “Eruption of Vesuvius,” Vol. 6 THOMAS BABINGTON MACAULAY, 1800–1859 Machiavelli Vol. 7, pages 295–329 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ARISTOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The causes of degeneration or instability in aristocracies: aristocracy and revolution EXPERIENCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6b: The role of experience in politics: the lessons of history HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: The light and lesson of history: its role in the education of the mind and in the guidance of human conduct LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c: The struggle for sovereign independence against the yoke of imperialism or colonial subjugation STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8c: The education or training of the statesman or prince VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7d: The virtues which constitute the good or successful ruler: the vices associated with the possession of power WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 10: The military arts and the military profession: their role in the state RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Thucydides, Vol. 5, History of the Peloponnesian War, Third Book Plato, Vol. 6, Seventh Letter Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. VI Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Paradiso, Canto XVI Montaigne, Vol. 23, Observations on Julius Caesar’s methods of mak- ing war Gibbon, Vol. 37, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire LU C IAN, LYE LL, MACAU LAY

Syntopical Guide232 Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 1–10, especially Nos. 3–5 Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Parts Eight and Nine Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chaps. IV, IX–X RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Great Place; Of Seditions and Troubles, Vol. 7 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Clausewitz, What Is War?, Vol. 7 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Hume, Of the Study of History, Vol. 7 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Prescott, “Land of Montezuma,” Vol. 6 For Machiavelli’s Prince in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 21 THOMAS ROBERT MALTHUS, 1766–1834 “The Principle of Population” from Population: the First Essay Vol. 7, pages 502–530 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8: Economic justice: justice in production, distribution, and exchange STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4c: The size, diversity, and distribution of populations: the causes and effects of their increase or decrease WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8c: The causes of poverty: competition, incompetence, indigence, expropriation, unemployment; the poverty of the proletariat as dispossessed of the instruments of production Topic 8d: Laws concerning poverty: the poor laws, the dole RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bk. III Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. VII, Chaps. 4–5 Montesquieu, Vol. 35, Spirit of Laws, Bk. XXIII Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. I, Chap. VIII Darwin, Vol. 49, Origin of Species, Chap. III Veblen, Vol. 57, Theory of the Leisure Class, Chaps. 3–4

233 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Carson, Sunless Sea, Vol. 8 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Prescott, “Land of Montezuma,” Vol. 6 Swift, Modest Proposal, Vol. 7 THOMAS MANN, 1875–1955 Mario and the Magician Vol. 3, pages 573–610 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon GOOD AND EVIL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3e: Right and wrong: the social incidence of the good; doing or suffering good and evil Topic 3f: The sources of evil in human life TYRANNY AND DESPOTISM, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1d: The character of the tyrannical man: the friends of the tyrant Topic 5c: The location of sovereignty in despotic and constitu- tional government: the sovereign person, the sovereign office, the sovereign people Topic 5d: The analogues of despotic and constitutional rule in the relation of the powers of the soul: the tyranny of the passions WILL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3a(1): The distinction between the voluntary and the involuntary: the conditions of voluntariness; comparison of men and animals with respect to voluntary behavior Topic 7a: Free will as a source of human dignity: its relation to slavery and civil liberty Topic 9a: The distinction between men of strong and weak will: cultivation of willpower RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Gorgias; Seventh Letter Plutarch, Vol. 13, Dion Balzac, Vol. 45, Cousin Bette MACAU LAY, MALTH U S, MAN N

Syntopical Guide234 James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXVII Orwell, Vol. 60, Animal Farm RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 Fitzgerald, Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Macaulay, Machiavelli, Vol. 7 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Poe, Tell-Tale Heart, Vol. 2 Stevenson, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Vol. 2 Twain, Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, Vol. 2 For Mann’s Death in Venice in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 59 GUY DE MAUPASSANT, 1850–1893 Two Friends Vol. 2, pages 159–164 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon COURAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The motivations of courage: fame or honor, happiness, love, duty, religious faith Topic 7a: The courage required of citizens and statesmen: the political recognition of courage Topic 7c: Courage in war HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3b: The conditions of honor or fame and the causes of dishonor or infamy Topic 5a: Honor as a motivation of heroism Topic 5c: The occasions of heroism in war and peace NATURE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2e: The natural and the unnatural or monstrous: the normal and the abnormal WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1: War as the reign of force: the state of war and the state of nature; the martial spirit Topic 5a: The moral consequences of war: its effects on the hap- piness and virtue of men and on the welfare of women and children Topic 9: The folly and futility of war: pacifist movements

235 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristophanes, Vol. 4, Lysistrata Thucydides, Vol. 5, History of the Peloponnesian War, Second Book, Chap. VI; Third Book, Chap. X; Fifth Book, Chap. XVII Virgil, Vol. 12, Eclogues, Eclogue IX Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part I Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 12, Chaps. IX–XI Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan Brecht, Vol. 60, Mother Courage and Her Children RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Followers and Friends, Vol. 7; Of Death; Of Adversity; Of Friendship, Vol. 10 Browne, “Immortality,” Vol. 10 Cicero, On Friendship, Vol. 10 Clausewitz, What Is War?, Vol. 7 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Hugo, “Battle with the Cannon,” Vol. 2 Lincoln, Meditation on the Divine Will; Gettysburg Address; Second Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 Paine, “Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776,” Vol. 6 Scott, Two Drovers, Vol. 2 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 HERMAN MELVILLE, 1819–1891 Billy Budd Vol. 3, pages 31–98 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CAUSE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1b: The order of causes: the relation of cause and effect DUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8: The tension between duty and instinct, desire, or love GOOD AND EVIL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1d: The origin, nature, and existence of evil Topic 3b(2): The good will: its conditions and consequences Topic 3e: Right and wrong: the social incidence of the good; doing or suffering good and evil MAN N, MAU PA S SANT, M E LVI LLE

Syntopical Guide236 LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5h: The defect of positive law: its need for correction or dispensation by equity PUNISHMENT, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: Free will in relation to responsibility and punishment: voluntariness in relation to guilt or fault; the accidental, the negligent, and the intentional RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Euripides, Vol. 4, Alcestis Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bk. IX Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. III, Chaps. 1–6 Montaigne, Vol. 23, That intention is judge of our actions Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Second Epilogue Conrad, Vol. 59, Heart of Darkness Lawrence, Vol. 60, Prussian Officer RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Truth, Vol. 10 Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 Hugo, “Battle with the Cannon,” Vol. 2 Mann, Mario and the Magician, Vol. 3 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 Plutarch, Of Bashfulness, Vol. 7 Tolstoy, Three Hermits, Vol. 3 For Melville’s Moby Dick in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 48 DMITRI MENDELEEV, 1834–1907 “The Genesis of a Law of Nature” from The Periodic Law of the Chemical Elements Vol. 8, pages 442–446 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CHANGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 9a: Physical and chemical change: compounds and mixtures ELEMENT, Vol. 1, especially

237 Topic 3: The theory of the elements in natural philosophy, physics, and chemistry HYPOTHESIS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4: The role of hypotheses in science RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bks. I–II Bacon, Vol. 28, Novum Organum, Second Book Lavoisier, Vol. 42, Elements of Chemistry, Preface; First Part, Chap. V–Second Part Faraday, Vol. 42, Experimental Researches in Electricity Poincaré, Vol. 56, Science and Hypothesis, Part IV Bohr, Vol. 56, Atomic Theory and the Description of Nature RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Campbell, Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science, Vol. 9 Curie, Discovery of Radium, Vol. 8 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Faraday, Chemical History of a Candle, Vol. 8 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Wöhler, On the Artificial Production of Urea, Vol. 8 JOHN STUART MILL, 1806–1873 “Childhood and Youth” from Autobiography Vol. 6, pages 5–47 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: The ideal of the educated person Topic 5b: The means and methods of teaching Topic 5d: The order of learning: the organization of the curriculum Topic 5f: Learning apart from teachers and books: the role of experience Topic 9: Historical and biographical observations concerning the institutions and practices of education FAMILY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6e: The initiation of children into adult life GOD, Vol. 1, especially M E LV I LLE, M E N D E LE EV, J. S. M I LL

Syntopical Guide238 Topic 10: The denial of God or the gods, or of a supernatural order: the position of the atheist HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: The light and lesson of history: its role in the education of the mind and in the guidance of human conduct RELIGION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7: Observations in history and literature concerning reli- gious beliefs, institutions, and controversies VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol 2, especially Topic 4d(1): The influence of parental authority on the formation of character RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. II–III, VII Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. VII, Chap. 14–Bk. VIII Aurelius, Vol. 11, Meditations, Bk. I Augustine, Vol. 16, Confessions, Bk. I Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I, Chaps. 11–24; Bk. II, Chaps. 5–8 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the education of children Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Parts I, VI Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One; Part Two, Act II Dewey, Vol. 55, Experience and Education Joyce, Vol. 59, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Of Discourse; Of Studies, Vol. 5; Of Youth and Age; Of Parents and Children; Of Custom and Education, Vol. 7 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 Erskine, Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Franklin, Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania, Vol. 6 Galton, “Classification of Human Ability,” Vol. 8 James, W., Great Men and Their Environment, Vol. 7 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 Stevenson, Lantern-Bearers, Vol. 7 Swift, Essay on Modern Education, Vol. 7 Twain, “Learning the River,” Vol. 6 Woolf, Art of Biography, Vol. 6

239 Nature Vol. 10, pages 477–508 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4d: The natural law as underlying the precepts of virtue: its relation to the moral precepts of divine law NATURE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: Nature and art: the imitation of nature; cooperation with nature Topic 2b: Nature and convention: the state of nature and the state of society Topic 3a: The maxims and laws of nature: the rationality of nature; entropy Topic 3c(4): Divine causality in relation to the course of nature: the preservation of nature; providence; miracles and magic RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Timaeus Aristotle, Vol. 7, Physics, Bk. II, Chap. 1; Metaphysics, Bk. V, Chap. 4 Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bks. I–II Epictetus, Vol. 11, Discourses, Bk. I, Chaps. 11, 26 Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, First Part, Q 44–Q 46, Art. 2; Q 103–105 Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part I, Chap. 15 Bacon, Vol. 28, Novum Organum, Second Book Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part I Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, Second Part Frazer, Vol. 58, Golden Bough, Chap. I RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Vol. 10 Bacon, Sphinx, Vol. 8 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Emerson, Nature, Vol. 10 Huxley, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, Vol. 8 James, W., Sentiment of Rationality, Vol. 10 Santayana, Lucretius, Vol. 10 Voltaire, “Philosophy of Common Sense,” Vol. 10 For other works by Mill in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 40 J. S. M I LL

Syntopical Guide240 MOLIÈRE, 1622–1673 The Misanthrope Vol. 4, pages 6–51 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EMOTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b(1): Moderation of the passions by reason: virtue, conti- nence, avoidance of sin LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a(1): The natural moral law as the eternal law in human nature MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 12: Man as an object of laughter and ridicule: comedy and satire OPINION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6a: Good and evil as matters of opinion: moral standards as customs or conventions reflecting prevalent opinion PROGRESS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1c: Skeptical or pessimistic denials of progress: the golden age as past; the cyclical motion of history; the degenera- tion of cultures VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1d: Virtue as an intrinsic good: its relation to happiness Topic 2c: The appearances of virtue: imperfect or conditional virtues; the counterfeits of virtue; natural or tempera- mental dispositions which simulate virtue Topic 4e(3): Circumstances as affecting the morality of human acts Topic 6d: Virtue and honor Topic 6e: Virtue in relation to friendship and love RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristophanes, Vol. 4, Clouds Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto XXIII Montaigne, Vol. 23, That intention is judge of our actions; Apology for Raymond Sebond Shakespeare, Vol. 25, King Lear Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. XIV Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part IV Voltaire, Vol. 34, Candide

241 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Followers and Friends, Vol. 7; Of Truth; Of Love; Of Friendship, Vol. 10 Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Dickens, “Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick,” Vol. 2 La Bruyère, Characters, Vol. 6 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 Twain, Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, Vol. 2 The Doctor in Spite of Himself Vol. 4, pages 52–81 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 12: Man as an object of laughter and ridicule: comedy and satire POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4b: Tragedy and comedy: the theater VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4e(3): Circumstances as affecting the morality of human acts RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristophanes, Vol. 4, Birds Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. III, Chaps. 29–33 Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Much Ado About Nothing Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part IV RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 For other works by Molière in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 31 EUGENE GLADSTONE O’NEILL, 1888–1953 The Emperor Jones Vol. 4, pages 357–382 M O LIÈR E, O’N E I LL Voltaire, “English Men and Ideas: On Inoculation,” Vol. 7

Syntopical Guide242 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EMOTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: Madness or frenzy due to emotional excess: exces- sively emotional or emotionally overdetermined be- havior GOOD AND EVIL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3e: Right and wrong: the social incidence of the good; doing or suffering good and evil MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 13: The grandeur and misery of man SIN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: The remorse of conscience and feelings of guilt: the psychogenesis and pathological expression of the sense of sin RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Ajax Euripides, Vol. 4, Orestes Shakespeare, Vol. 25, King Lear; Macbeth, Act II, Scene II; Act III, Scenes II–IV Freud, Vol. 54, Civilization and Its Discontents, Chap. VII Conrad, Vol. 59, Heart of Darkness Fitzgerald, Vol. 60, Great Gatsby Beckett, Vol. 60, Waiting for Godot RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Great Place; Of Seditions and Troubles, Vol. 7; Of Death; Of Adversity, Vol. 10 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Defoe, Robinson Crusoe, Vol. 2 Fitzgerald, Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Vol. 3 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 James, W., Energies of Men, Vol. 7 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Mann, Mario and the Magician, Vol. 3 Poe, Tell-Tale Heart, Vol. 2 Stevenson, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Vol. 2 For O’Neill’s Mourning Becomes Electra in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 60

243 THOMAS PAINE, 1737–1809 “A Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776” from The Crisis Vol. 6, pages 461–468 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon COURAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7a: The courage required of citizens and statesmen: the political recognition of courage LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6c: The struggle for sovereign independence against the yoke of imperialism or colonial subjugation REVOLUTION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3a: The aims of political revolution: the seizure of power; the attainment of liberty, justice, equality Topic 6a: The right of rebellion: the circumstances justifying civil disobedience or violent insurrection RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Statesman Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chaps. XVIII–XIX Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, No. 45 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 2, Part III, Chaps. 21–26 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 12, Chap. IV; Second Epilogue, Chaps. IV–V RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Seditions and Troubles, Vol. 7 Burke, Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol, Vol. 7 Great Documents, Declaration of Independence, Vol. 6 Jefferson, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Lincoln, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 Washington, Circular Letter to the Governors of All the States on Dis- banding the Army, Vol. 6 WALTER PATER, 1839–1894 “The Art of Life” from The Renaissance Vol. 10, pages 258–261 O’N E I LL, PA I N E, PATE R

Syntopical Guide244 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7a: Art as a source of pleasure or delight DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7a(1): The pursuit of pleasure EXPERIENCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8: Variety of experience as an ideal of human life RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. VIII Aristotle, Vol. 8, Rhetoric, Bk. III, Chaps. 1–7; On Poetics, Chaps. 4–15 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of solitude; Of vanity Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, Part I Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One; Part Two, Acts III, V RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry; Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Of Beauty, Vol. 5; Of Custom and Education, Vol. 7 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Dostoevsky, White Nights, Vol. 3 Epictetus, Enchiridion, Vol. 10 Epicurus, Letter to Herodotus; Letter to Menoeceus, Vol. 10 Hazlitt, On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth, Vol. 10 James, W., On a Certain Blindness in Human Beings, Vol. 7 Johnson, Preface to Shakespeare, Vol. 5 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Santayana, Goethe’s Faust, Vol. 10 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 IVAN PETROVICH PAVLOV, 1849–1936 Scientific Study of the So-called Psychical Processes in the Higher Animals Vol. 8, pages 294–309 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1e: The conception of the animal as a machine or automaton HABIT, Vol. 1 MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially

245 Topic 4c: The mechanistic versus the organismic account of nature MEDICINE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: The scientific foundations of the art of medicine: the contrast between the empiric and the artist in medicine MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1: The faculties of memory and imagination in brutes and men SENSE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c: Comparisons of human and animal sensitivity Topic 3: The analysis of the power of sense: its organs and activities RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, History of Animals, Bk. IV Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Part V Darwin, Vol. 49, Descent of Man, Chap. III James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chaps. IV, XXIV, XXVI Schrödinger, Vol. 56, What Is Life?, Chap. 7 Waddington, Vol. 56, Nature of Life, Chap. 1 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bernard, Experimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies, Vol. 8 Fabre, Laboratory of the Open Fields; Sacred Beetle, Vol. 8 Huxley, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals, Vol. 8 Wöhler, On the Artificial Production of Urea, Vol. 8 CHARLES SANDERS PEIRCE, 1839–1914 The Red and the Black Vol. 9, pages 342–348 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CHANCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4: Cause and chance in relation to knowledge and opinion: the theory of probability TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2e: The distinction between truth and probability: its rela- tion to the distinction between knowledge and opinion PATE R, PAVLOV, P E I RCE

Syntopical Guide246 Topic 4c: Truth in metaphysics, mathematics, and the empirical sciences: the truth of principles, hypotheses, and con- clusions in the several speculative disciplines Topic 4d: Truth and probability in rhetoric and dialectic Topic 7a: The impossibility of knowing the truth: the restriction of all human judgments to degrees of probability; the denial of axioms and of the possibility of demonstration RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. III; Treatise on the Arithmetical Triangle; Correspondence with Fermat on the Theory of Probabilities Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Human Understanding, Bk. IV, Chaps. III, VI, XV–XVII Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Chap. Six Poincaré, Vol. 56, Science and Hypothesis, Preface; Chap. 11 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Erskine, Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Faraday, Observations on Mental Education, Vol. 7 Forsyth, Mathematics, in Life and Thought, Vol. 9 James, W., Will to Believe, Vol. 10 Laplace, “Probability,” Vol. 9 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Poincaré, Chance, Vol. 9 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 PLINY THE YOUNGER (GAIUS PLINUS CAECILIUS SECUNDUS), c. 61–c. 113 “The Eruption of Vesuvius” from Letters Vol. 6, pages 264–270 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon COURAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The nature of courage Topic 6: The formation or training of the courageous man HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The writing of history: research and narration; the influ- ence of poetry RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Herodotus, Vol. 5, History, First Book

247 Thucydides, Vol. 5, History of the Peloponnesian War, First Book, Chap. I Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part Two, Act II RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Death, Vol. 10 Lyell, “Geological Evolution,” Vol. 8 Prescott, “Land of Montezuma,” Vol. 6 PLUTARCH, c. 46–120 Of Bashfulness Vol. 7, pages 97–109 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2a: The sense of honor and of shame: loyalty to the good VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1c: The doctrine of virtue as a mean between the extremes of vice Topic 4: The natural causes or conditions of virtue Topic 5: Psychological factors in the formation of moral virtue Topic 6: Virtue in relation to other moral goods or principles RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. II, Chaps. 6–9; Bk. III, Chap. 7—Bk. V, Chap. 11; Rhetoric, Bk. II, Chap. 6 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of conscience; Of glory; Of repentance RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Bacon, Of Youth and Age, Vol. 7 Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 Contentment Vol. 10, pages 264–281 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2a: The marks of a happy man, the quality of a happy life Topic 2b(1): The contribution of the goods of fortune to happi- ness: wealth, health, longevity P E I RC E, P LI NY TH E YOU NG E R, P LUTARC H

Syntopical Guide248 Topic 2b(7): The function of knowledge and wisdom in the happy life: the place of speculative activity and contemplation LABOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1b: Labor, leisure, and happiness: the servile, political and contemplative life RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Phaedo; Republic, Bk. VII Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. I, Chaps. 5–12 Epictetus, Vol. 11, Discourses, Bk. III, Chap. XXIV Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, Part I–II, Q 1, Art. 7–Q 2, Art. 5 Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part I, Chap. XI Montaigne, Vol. 23, That to philosophize is to learn to die; That the taste of good and evil depends in large part on the opinion we have of them; Of glory Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part IV, Appendix Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. II Kant, Vol. 39, Fundamental Principles of the Metaphysic of Morals Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 12, Chap. XIII; Bk. 13, Chaps. XII, XIV; Bk. 14, Chaps. XII, XV; Bk. 15, Chaps. XII–XIII, XIX Veblen, Vol. 57, Theory of the Leisure Class, Chaps. 3–7 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Youth and Age; Of Great Place, Vol. 7; Of Anger, Vol. 10 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Chekhov, Darling, Vol. 3 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Epictetus, Enchiridion, Vol. 10 Epicurus, Letter to Menoeceus, Vol. 10 Gogol, Overcoat, Vol. 2 James, W., On a Certain Blindness in Human Beings, Vol. 7 La Bruyère, Characters, Vol. 6 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Santayana, Lucretius, Vol. 10 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Tolstoy, Three Hermits, Vol. 3 Wilde, Happy Prince, Vol. 2 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 For Plutarch’s Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 13

249 EDGAR ALLAN POE, 1809–1849 The Tell-Tale Heart Vol. 2, pages 273–277 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EMOTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: Madness or frenzy due to emotional excess: excessively emotional or emotionally overdetermined behavior MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7b: The fantastic and the realistic in poetry: the probable and the possible in poetry and history MIND, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8a: The distinction between sanity and madness: the crite- rion of lucidity or insight PUNISHMENT, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: Sanity, maturity, and moral competence in relation to responsibility RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Ajax Euripides, Vol. 4, Electra Plato, Vol. 6, Phaedrus Shakespeare, Vol. 25, Hamlet, Act IV, Scene V; Othello, Act IV, Scene I; King Lear Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chaps. 41, 44 Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part III, Bk. VIII, Chap. 8 Lawrence, Vol. 60, Prussian Officer RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Anger, Vol. 10 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Mann, Mario and the Magician, Vol. 3 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 Scott, Two Drovers, Vol. 2 Stevenson, Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, Vol. 2 P LUTARCH, POE

Syntopical Guide250 The Masque of the Red Death Vol. 2, pages 278–283 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8b: The love of life: the instinct of self-preservation; the life instinct Topic 8d: The fear of death: the attitude of the hero, the philoso- pher, the poet, the martyr MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7b: The fantastic and the realistic in poetry: the probable and the possible in poetry and history POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6a: The expression of emotion in poetry RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Euripides, Vol. 4, Alcestis Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Richard III, Act I, Scene IV Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part III, Chap. X Kafka, Vol. 60, Metamorphosis RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Death, Vol. 10 Browne, “Immortality,” Vol. 10 Epicurus, Letter to Menoeceus, Vol. 10 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 HENRI POINCARÉ, 1854–1912 Space Vol. 9, pages 265–293 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1c: The certainty and exactitude of mathematical knowl- edge: truth in mathematics; the a priori foundations of arithmetic and geometry Topic 4b: The operations of geometry QUANTITY, Vol. 2, especially

251 Topic 3: The magnitudes of geometry: the relations of dimensionality SPACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3c: Geometric space, its kinds and properties: spatial rela- tionships and configurations Topic 5: The mode of existence of geometric objects: their char- acter as abstractions; their relation to intelligible matter RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, Physics, Bk. III, Chap. 4–Bk. IV, Chap. 9 Euclid, Vol. 10, Elements, Bk. I Descartes, Vol. 28, Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rule XIV Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XX Russell, Vol. 55, Problems of Philosophy, Chaps. VII–VIII Whitehead, Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chaps. 9, 16 Einstein, Vol. 56, Relativity: The Special and the General Theory RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Clifford, Postulates of the Science of Space, Vol. 9 Russell, Mathematics and the Metaphysicians, Vol. 9 Voltaire, Micromégas, Vol. 2; “English Men and Ideas,” Vol. 7 Mathematical Creation Vol. 9, pages 294–304 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon INDUCTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: The conditions or sources of induction: memory, experi- ence, experiment MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: Method in mathematics: the model of mathematical thought REASONING, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Discursive reasoning contrasted with immediate intuition Topic 1c: The role of sense, memory, and imagination in reason- ing: perceptual inference, rational reminiscence, the collation of images RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, Metaphysics, Bk. XIV, Chaps. 3–6 Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. I POE, POI NCARÉ

Syntopical Guide252 James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXVIII Whitehead, Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chap. 1 Hardy, Vol. 56, Mathematician’s Apology RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Campbell, Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science, Vol. 9 Curie, Discovery of Radium, Vol. 8 Dantzig, Fingerprints; Empty Column, Vol. 9 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Dewey, “Process of Thought,” Vol. 10 Galton, “Classification of Human Ability,” Vol. 8 Hogben, Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization, Vol. 9 Mendeleev, “Genesis of a Law of Nature,” Vol. 8 Russell, Study of Mathematics, Vol. 9 Tyndall, “Michael Faraday,” Vol. 8 Whitehead, “On Mathematical Method,” Vol. 9 Chance Vol. 9, pages 305–320 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CAUSE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: Cause in relation to knowledge CHANCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The conception of change Topic 2a: The relation of chance to causality: philosophical or scientific determinism Topic 4: Cause and chance in relation to knowledge and opinion: the theory of probability NECESSITY AND CONTINGENCY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: Necessity and contingency in the realm of change: chance and determinism Topic 4: Necessity and contingency in the realm of thought RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, Physics, Bk. II, Chaps. 4–6 Pascal, Vol. 30, Treatise on the Arithmetical Triangle; Correspondence with Fermat on the Theory of Probabilities Hume, Vol. 33, Enquiry Concerning Human Understanding, Sect. VI Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Human Understanding, Bk. IV, Chaps. III– IV, VI, XV–XVII Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chap. V Planck, Vol. 56, Scientific Autobiography Waddington, Vol. 56, Nature of Life, Chap. 4

253 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Eddington, Running-Down of the Universe, Vol. 8 Laplace, “Probability,” Vol. 9 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Peirce, Red and the Black, Vol. 9 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 For Poincaré’s Science and Hypothesis in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 56 WILLIAM HICKLING PRESCOTT, 1796–1859 “The Land of Montezuma” from The Conquest of Mexico Vol. 6, pages 231–243 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MONARCHY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: The absolute government of colonies, dependencies, or conquered peoples REVOLUTION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7: Empire and revolution: the justification of colonial rebel- lion and the defense of imperialism SLAVERY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6d: The imperialistic subjection or enslavement of con- quered peoples or colonial dependencies STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 9f: Colonization and imperialism: the economic and politi- cal factors in empire TYRANNY AND DESPOTISM, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7: The ways of tyrants or despots to attain and maintain power WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6a: Conquest, empire, political expansion as ends of war Topic 10c: The military virtues: the qualities of the professional soldier; education for war RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Herodotus, Vol. 5, History, First Book; Fifth–Sixth Book Thucydides, Vol. 5, History of the Peloponnesian War, Third Book, Chap. IX; Fifth Book, Chap. XVII P O I N CARÉ, P R E S C OT T

Syntopical Guide254 Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part II, Chaps. 19–20 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of cannibals Gibbon, Vol. 37, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Chaps. II, XXVI, XXX–XXXI; Vol. 38, Chap. XLIII Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. VI Conrad, Vol. 59, Heart of Darkness RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Clausewitz, What Is War?, Vol. 7 Hume, Of Refinement in the Arts, Vol. 7 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Macaulay, Machiavelli, Vol. 7 Malthus, “Principle of Population,” Vol. 7 Pliny, “Eruption of Vesuvius,” Vol. 6 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Xenophon, “March to the Sea,” Vol. 6 ALEXANDER PUSHKIN, 1799–1837 The Queen of Spades Vol. 3, pages 484–507 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CHANCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The control of chance or contingency by art Topic 6a: Chance and fortune in the life of the individual: gam- bling and games of chance DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5c: Desire ruling action: the unchecked expression of desires; incontinence Topic 7a(2): The lust for power Topic 7a(3): The accumulation of wealth WILL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c(3): The several acts of the will with respect to means: their antecedents and consequences Topic 9a: The distinction between men of strong and weak will: cultivation of willpower RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bk. IV Pascal, Vol. 30, Correspondence with Fermat on the Theory of Probabilities Berkeley, Vol. 33, Principles of Human Knowledge

255 Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of Right, Third Part Balzac, Vol. 45, Cousin Bette Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chaps. 37, 41, 134 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bk. 4, Chaps. XIII–XVI Ibsen, Vol. 52, Master Builder Veblen, Vol. 57, Theory of the Leisure Class, Chap. 11 Lawrence, Vol. 60, Prussian Officer RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Riches, Vol. 7 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 Fitzgerald, Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Vol. 3 La Bruyère, Characters, Vol. 6 Laplace, “Probability,” Vol. 9 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Peirce, Red and the Black, Vol. 9 Poe, Tell-Tale Heart, Vol. 2 Poincaré, Chance, Vol. 9 JEAN JACQUES ROUSSEAU, 1712–1778 A Lasting Peace through the Federation of Europe Vol. 7, pages 405–436 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon GOVERNMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5a: Foreign policy: the making of treaties; the conduct of war and peace LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: The end of law: peace, order, and the common good STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 9e(1): The military problem of the state: preparation for conquest or defense Topic 9e(2): Treaties between states: alliances, leagues, confed- eracies, or hegemonies WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5c: The economics of war: its cost and consequences Topic 6a: Conquest, empire, political expansion as ends of war Topic 11a: Law and government as indispensable conditions of civil peace: the political community as the unit of peace P R E S C OT T, P U S H K I N, RO U S S EAU

Syntopical Guide256 Topic 11c: International law and international peace: treaties, alliances, and leagues as instrumentalities of interna- tional peace RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bk. III Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part I, Chaps. 13–15 Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chap. XVI Montesquieu, Vol. 35, Spirit of Laws, Bk. X Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. V, Part I Kant, Vol. 39, Science of Right, Second Part Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 3–9 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chaps. 15–17 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part II, Chap. 5; Vol. 2, Part III, Chaps. 22–26 Freud, Vol. 54, Thoughts for the Times on War and Death, Chap. I Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. VI RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Clausewitz, What Is War?, Vol. 7 Dante, “On World Government,” Vol. 7 Kant, Perpetual Peace, Vol. 7 Washington, Farewell Address, Vol. 6 For other works by Rousseau in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 35 JOHN RUSKIN, 1819–1900 An Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age Vol. 7, pages 126–136 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 12: The history of the arts: progress in art as measuring stages of civilization BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4: Beauty and ugliness in relation to pleasure and pain or good and evil FAMILY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The position of women LABOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: The curse of labor: myths of a golden age and the decay of the world

257 Topic 1e: The honor of work and the virtue of productivity: progress through the invention of arts for the con- quest of nature PROGRESS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1c: Skeptical or pessimistic denials of progress: the golden age as past; the cyclical motion of history; the degenera- tion of cultures Topic 6: Intellectual or cultural progress: its sources and impediments; the analogy of cultural progress to biologi- cal evolution RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. I, Chap. 4 Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bk. V Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part IV, Chap. 46 Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part III, Chaps. IV–VI Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, First Part Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. I, Chap. III Freud, Vol. 54, Civilization and Its Discontents, Chap. III Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chaps. I, XIII Tawney, Vol. 57, Acquisitive Society, Chaps. 4–11 Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. XIX–XXIII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 Chekhov, Cherry Orchard, Vol. 4 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Hume, Of Refinement in the Arts, Vol. 7 Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Stevenson, Lantern-Bearers, Vol. 7 Swift, Essay on Modern Education; Modest Proposal, Vol. 7 Tolstoy, What Men Live By, Vol. 3 BERTRAND A. W. RUSSELL, 1872–1970 The Study of Mathematics Vol. 9, pages 84–94 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon LOGIC, Vol. 1, especially RO U S S EAU, RU S K I N, RU S S E LL

Syntopical Guide258 Topic 4: Logic as an art: its place in education Topic 5a: Mathematical analysis and reasoning: the search for a universal method MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1a: The distinction of mathematics from physics and meta- physics; its relation to logic Topic 1b: The service of mathematics to dialectic and philosophy: its place in liberal education NECESSITY AND CONTINGENCY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4d: Mathematical necessity: necessity in the objects of mathematics and in mathematical reasoning RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. VII; Philebus; Laws, Bk. VII Aristotle, Vol. 7, Metaphysics, Bk. XIV, Chaps. 3–6 Euclid, Vol. 10, Elements, Bks. I–II Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. I; On Geometrical Demonstration Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXVIII Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chap. II; Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chap. 1 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Campbell, Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science, Vol. 9 Clifford, Postulates of the Science of Space, Vol. 9 Forsyth, Mathematics, in Life and Thought, Vol. 9 Hogben, Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization, Vol. 9 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Whitehead, “On Mathematical Method,” Vol. 9 Mathematics and the Metaphysicians Vol. 9, pages 95–110 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CHANGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The measure of motion Topic 7d: The properties of variable motion: the laws of motion INFINITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The infinite in quantity: infinite magnitudes and multitudes LOGIC, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5a: Mathematical analysis and reasoning: the search for a universal method

259 MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3d: Symbols and formulas: the attainment of generality Topic 4: Mathematical techniques Topic 4d: The method of exhaustion: the theory of limits and the calculus RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Parmenides Aristotle, Vol. 7, Organon; Metaphysics, Bk. IV; Bk. XI, Chaps. 4–7 Euclid, Vol. 10, Elements, Bks. I–II, X, XII Archimedes, Vol. 10, Quadrature of the Parabola; Method Treating of Mechanical Problems Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Bk. I, Sect. I Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason, Introduction Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Introduction Poincaré, Vol. 56, Science and Hypothesis, Part I Whitehead, Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chap. 5 Hardy, Vol. 56, Mathematician’s Apology RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Clifford, Postulates of the Science of Space, Vol. 9 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Forsyth, Mathematics, in Life and Thought, Vol. 9 Hogben, Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization, Vol. 9 Kasner and Newman, New Names for Old; Beyond the Googol, Vol. 9 Poincaré, Space, Vol. 9 Whitehead, “On Mathematical Method”; On the Nature of a Calculus, Vol. 9 Definition of Number Vol. 9, pages 111–117 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DEFINITION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The theory of definition Topic 1a: The object of definition: definitions as arbitrary and nominal or real and concerned with essence Topic 4: The search for definitions and the methods of defend- ing them INFINITY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: Number: the infinite of division and addition MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: The objects of mathematics: ideas or abstractions; num- ber, figure, extension, relation, order R U S S E L L

Syntopical Guide260 QUANTITY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4: Discrete quantities: number and numbering RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Meno; Republic, Bk. VII; Theaetetus Aristotle, Vol. 7, Topics, Bks. VI–VII; Metaphysics, Bk. I; Bk. VII, Chap. 10–Bk. VIII, Chap. 6 Euclid, Vol. 10, Elements, Bk. V Archimedes, Vol. 10, Sand-Reckoner Nicomachus, Vol. 10, Introduction to Arithmetic, Bks. I, II Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part IV Whitehead, Vol. 56, Introduction to Mathematics, Chap. 1 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Campbell, Measurement, Vol. 9 Dantzig, Fingerprints; Empty Column, Vol. 9 Kasner and Newman, New Names for Old; Beyond the Googol, Vol. 9 For Russell’s Problems of Philosophy in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 55 CHARLES AUGUSTIN SAINTE-BEUVE, 1804–1869 What Is a Classic? Vol. 5, pages 65–75 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7b: The judgment of excellence in art BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: Judgments of beauty: the objective and the subjective in aesthetic judgments or judgments of taste; judgments of style or fashion based on wealth or honor RHETORIC, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The canon of excellence in style UNIVERSAL AND PARTICULAR, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7c: The issue concerning the universality of aesthetic stan- dards: the subjective universal RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of books

261 Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part One, Chaps. 47–48 Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. I Voltaire, Vol. 34, Candide, Chap. 25 Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. XX–XXII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry; Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Of Studies, Vol. 5 Bury, Herodotus, Vol. 6 Eliot, T. S., Dante; Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Hazlitt, Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen, Vol. 5 Hume, Of the Standard of Taste, Vol. 5 Johnson, Preface to Shakespeare, Vol. 5 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Style, Vol. 5 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 Montaigne Vol. 5, pages 76–89 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: Judgments of beauty: the objective and the subjective in aesthetic judgments or judgments of taste; judgments of style or fashion based on wealth or honor MIND, Vol. 2, especially Topic 9c: Reason as regulating human conduct: reason as the principle of virtue or duty POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8b: Critical standards and artistic rules with respect to the language of poetry: the distinction between prose and verse; the measure of excellence in style RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Ion Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. I Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I, Bk. II Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Emerson, Montaigne; Or, the Skeptic, Vol. 10 R U S S E L L, SA I N T E- B E U V E

Syntopical Guide262 Epicurus, Letter to Menoeceus, Vol. 10 Erskine, Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Voltaire, “Philosophy of Common Sense,” Vol. 10 For Montaigne’s Essays in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 23 GEORGE SANTAYANA, 1863–1952 Lucretius Vol. 10, pages 365–390 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6a: The regulation of desire by reason: the discipline of moral virtue or duty ELEMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The conception of atoms as indivisible, imperceptible, and indestructible LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8d: The fear of death: the attitude of the hero, the philoso- pher, the poet, the martyr MATTER, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3a: Matter as the sole existent: materialism, atomism NATURE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2d: Natural and violent motion SOUL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3d: The denial of soul as an immaterial principle, form, or substance: the atomic theory of the soul RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aurelius, Vol. 11, Meditations, Bk. IX Plotinus, Vol. 11, Fourth Ennead, Seventh Tractate Montaigne, Vol. 23, That to philosophize is to learn to die; Apology for Raymond Sebond Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part III; Part IV, Props. 44–66 Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sects. II–VII, IX Heisenberg, Vol. 56, Physics and Philosophy, Chap. 4 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry, Vol. 5 Bacon, Of Death, Vol. 10 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5

263 Emerson, Nature, Vol. 10 Epicurus, Letter to Herodotus; Letter to Menoeceus, Vol. 10 Mill, J. S., Nature, Vol. 10 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 For Lucretius’ Way Things Are in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 11 Goethe’s Faust Vol. 10, pages 391–419 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7a(2): The lust for power EXPERIENCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8: Variety of experience as an ideal of human life HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7b: The imperfection of temporal happiness: its failure to satisfy natural desire PHILOSOPHY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1d: The relation of philosophy to myth, poetry, and history WILL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b(2): The sensitive determination of the will’s acts by es- timations of benefit and harm, or pleasure and pain: the impulsion of the passions RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bk. III Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part II, Prop. 44; Parts IV–V Milton, Vol. 29, Paradise Lost, Bks. IX, XII; Areopagitica Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, On Liberty, Chap. 3 Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part II, Bk. VI, Chaps. 2–3 Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. XIII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry, Vol. 5 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Mann, Mario and the Magician, Vol. 3 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 SA I NTE-B E U V E, SA N TAYA NA

Syntopical Guide264 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 Shaw, Man of Destiny, Vol. 4 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 For Goethe’s Faust in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 45 FRIEDRICH SCHILLER, 1759–1805 On Simple and Sentimental Poetry Vol. 5, pages 155–211 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2a: Causation in art and nature: artistic production com- pared with natural generation Topic 7b: The judgment of excellence in art NATURE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: Nature and art: the imitation of nature; cooperation with nature POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The inspiration or genius of the poet: the role of experience and imagination; the influence of the po- etic tradition Topic 4a: Epic and dramatic poetry Topic 4b: Tragedy and comedy: the theater Topic 8a(2): Poetic truth: verisimilitude or plausibility; the possi- ble, the probable, and the necessary RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Ion; Republic, Bks. II–III Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics, Chaps. 5–16, 23–26 Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part One, Chaps. 47–48 Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. I Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. XX–XXII Pirandello, Vol. 59, Six Characters in Search of an Author RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Arnold, Study of Poetry, Vol. 5 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5

265 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Hazlitt, My First Acquaintance with Poets; Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen, Vol. 5 Johnson, Preface to Shakespeare, Vol. 5 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Some Forms of Literature, Vol. 5 Scott, Two Drovers, Vol. 2 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 Tolstoy, Three Hermits, Vol. 3 Whitman, Preface to Leaves of Grass, Vol. 5 ARTHUR SCHOPENHAUER, 1788–1860 On Style Vol. 5, pages 124–136 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7b: The judgment of excellence in art BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: Judgments of beauty: the objective and the subjective in aesthetic judgments or judgments of taste; judgments of style or fashion based on wealth or honor POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8b: Critical standards and artistic rules with respect to the language of poetry; the distinction between prose and verse; the measure of excellence in style RHETORIC, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The canon of excellence in style RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, Rhetoric, Bk. III, Chaps. 1–13 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of books Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Prologue; Part Two, Chap. 16 Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Part I Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I, Bk. I Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry, Vol. 5 SANTAYANA, S C H I LLE R, S C H O P E N HAU E R

Syntopical Guide266 Bacon, Of Beauty, Vol. 5 Eliot, T. S., Dante, Vol. 5 Hazlitt, On Swift, Vol. 5 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 On Some Forms of Literature Vol. 5, pages 137–142 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6a: The comparison and distinction of art and science POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5b: Poetry contrasted with history and philosophy: the dispraise and defense of the poet Topic 8a(2): Poetic truth: verisimilitude or plausibility; the possi- ble, the probable, and the necessary RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. X Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part One, Chaps. 6, 32, 47–50; Part Two, Chaps. 3–4 Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan, Preface Pirandello, Vol. 59, Six Characters in Search of an Author RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Studies, Vol. 5 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Hazlitt, My First Acquaintance with Poets, Vol. 5 Johnson, Preface to Shakespeare, Vol. 5 Lamb, My First Play, Vol. 5 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 On the Comparative Place of Interest and Beauty in Works of Art Vol. 5, pages 143–150 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1b: Beauty and truth: the beautiful as an object of contem- plation or adoration

267 Topic 2: Beauty in nature and in art POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8a(2): Poetic truth: verisimilitude or plausibility; the possi- ble, the probable, and the necessary RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics Plotinus, Vol. 11, Fifth Ennead, Eighth Tractate Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sects. I–II Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Prelude in the Theatre James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXVIII Joyce, Vol. 59, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Beauty, Vol. 5 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power; On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth, Vol. 5 Hume, Of the Standard of Taste, Vol. 5 James, W., On a Certain Blindness in Human Beings, Vol. 7 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5 On Education Vol. 7, pages 197–203 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The means and ends of education Topic 5b: The means and methods of teaching Topic 5c: The nature of learning: its several modes Topic 5f: Learning apart from teachers and books: the role of experience EXPERIENCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2: Experience in relation to the acts of the mind Topic 6a: Experience as indispensable to sound judgment and prudence KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6b: The classification of knowledge according to the facul- ties involved in knowing MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: Remembering as an act of knowledge and as a source of knowledge Topic 6c(1): The abstraction of ideas from images: the image as a condition of thought S C H O P E N H AU E R

Syntopical Guide268 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. II–III, VI–VII Aristotle, Vol. 7, On the Soul, Bk. III, Chaps. 3–8; Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. I, Chaps. 3–4, Bk. VI, especially Chaps. 5–8, Politics, Bk. VII, Chap. 13–Bk. VIII, Chap. 7 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of pedantry; Of the education of children Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, First Book Descartes, Vol. 28, Rules for the Direction of the Mind, Rules XII–XIII James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chaps. XVI, XXVI, XXVIII Freud, Vol. 54, New Introductory Lectures on Psycho-Analysis, Lec- ture, 34 Dewey, Vol. 55, Experience and Education Lévi-Strauss, Vol. 58, Structural Anthropology, Chap. XVII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Studies, Vol. 5; Of Custom and Education, Vol. 7 Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 Dewey, “Process of Thought,” Vol. 10 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Erskine, Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Faraday, Observations on Mental Education, Vol. 7 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Franklin, Proposal for Promoting Useful Knowledge among the British Plantations in America; Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania, Vol. 6 Hume, Of the Study of History, Vol. 7 James, H., Pupil, Vol. 3 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Swift, Essay on Modern Education, Vol. 7 Twain, “Learning the River,” Vol. 6 Voltaire, Micromégas, Vol. 2 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5 SIR WALTER SCOTT, 1771–1832 The Two Drovers Vol. 2, pages 182–205 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CHANCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1a: Chance as the coincidence of causes

269 Topic 6a: Chance and fortune in the life of the individual: gam- bling and games of chance EMOTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: Madness or frenzy due to emotional excess: excessively emotional or emotionally overdetermined behavior HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2c: Honor as due self-esteem: magnanimity or proper pride JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6a: The relation between natural law and natural justice Topic 10c: The justice of punishment for unjust acts: the distinc- tion between retribution and vengeance RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad, Bks. XXI–XXII Herodotus, Vol. 5, History, Third Book Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Romeo and Juliet, Act III, Scene III; Vol. 25, King Lear, Act IV, Scene VI Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part III Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chaps. II–III Lawrence, Vol. 60, Prussian Officer O’Neill, Vol. 60, Mourning Becomes Electra RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Friendship; Of Anger, Vol. 10 Cicero, On Friendship, Vol. 10 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Great Documents, English Bill of Rights, Vol. 6 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 Hugo, “Battle with the Cannon,” Vol. 2 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 Poe, Tell-Tale Heart, Vol. 2 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 GEORGE BERNARD SHAW, 1856–1950 The Man of Destiny Vol. 4, pages 300–338 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially S C H O P E N HAU E R, S C OT T, S HAW

Syntopical Guide270 Topic 4a(4): The role of the individual in history: the great man, hero, or leader HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5b: Hero-worship: the exaltation of leaders WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 10d: The principles of strategy and tactics: the military genius RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad Plutarch, Vol. 13, Caesar; Marcus Brutus Machiavelli, Vol. 21, Prince, Chaps. 25–26 Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Henry V; Julius Caesar Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Introduction III Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Parts Two and Nine Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Second Epilogue Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. IX Conrad, Vol. 59, Heart of Darkness RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Great Place, Vol. 7 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Clausewitz, What Is War?, Vol. 7 Emerson, Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 James, W., Great Men and Their Environment, Vol. 7 Mann, Mario and the Magician, Vol. 3 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 For Shaw’s Saint Joan in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 59 PERCY BYSSHE SHELLEY, 1792–1822 A Defence of Poetry Vol. 5, pages 216–242 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7a: The use of imagination in the production and apprecia- tion of works of art PHILOSOPHY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1d: The relation of philosophy to myth, poetry, and history

271 POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The inspiration or genius of the poet: the role of experi- ence and imagination; the influence of the poetic tradition Topic 5a: The aim of poetry to instruct as well as to delight: the pretentions or deceptions of the poet as teacher Topic 5b: Poetry contrasted with history and philosophy: the dispraise and defense of the poet Topic 8c: The interpretation of poetry and myth Topic 9a: The influence of poetry on mind and character: its role in education SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: The comparison of science with poetry and history RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Ion; Republic, Bks. II–III Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of books Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part One, Chap. 16 Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I, Bk. II Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chap. V Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. XX–XXII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry; Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Eliot, T. S., Dante; Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Sainte-Beuve, What Is a Classic?, Vol. 5 Santayana, Lucretius; Goethe’s Faust, Vol. 10 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Schopenhauer, On Some Forms of Literature, Vol. 5 Whitman, Preface to Leaves of Grass, Vol. 5 Woolf, How Should One Read a Book?, Vol. 5 RICHARD BRINSLEY SHERIDAN, 1751–1816 The School for Scandal Vol. 4, pages 85–159 S HAW, S H E LLEY, S H E R I DA N

Syntopical Guide272 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon CUSTOM AND CONVENTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5a: The conventional determination of moral judgments: the moral evaluation of conventions OPINION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6a: Good and evil as matters of opinion: moral standards as customs or conventions reflecting prevalent opinion TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8a: Prevarication and perjury: the injustice or lying or bearing false witness VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c: The appearances of virtue: imperfect or conditional virtues; the counterfeits of virtue; natural or tempera- mental dispositions which simulate virtue RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Shakespeare, Vol. 25, Hamlet; King Lear Milton, Vol. 29, Comus Molière, Vol. 31, School for Wives; Critique of the School for Wives Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part IV, Chaps. IV–XII Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of Right, Second Part Austen, Vol. 46, Emma Eliot, G., Vol. 46, Middlemarch James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. X RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Discourse, Vol. 5; Of Custom and Education; Of Followers and Friends, Vol. 7; Of Truth; Of Love, Vol. 10 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 Dickens, “Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick,” Vol. 2 Erskine, Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 La Bruyère, Characters, Vol. 6 Molière, Misanthrope; Doctor in Spite of Himself, Vol. 4 Tolstoy, What Men Live By, Vol. 3 Twain, Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg, Vol. 2 The Spinoza of Market Street Vol. 3, pages 466–480 ISAAC BASHEVIS SINGER, 1904–1991

273 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6a: The regulation of desire by reason: the discipline of moral virtue or duty EMOTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4a: The conflict between reason and emotion HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(5): The importance of friendship and love for happiness Topic 2b(7): The function of knowledge and wisdom in the happy life: the place of speculative activity and contemplation PHILOSOPHY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4c: Philosophy as a moral discipline: the consolation of philosophy Topic 6d: The philosopher as a man of theory or vision: neglect of the practical; withdrawal from the affairs of men and the marketplace WISDOM, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4: The praise of folly: the wisdom of fools and innocents RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. IV Erasmus, Vol. 23, Praise of Folly Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part Two, Chap. 43 Spinoza, Vol. 28, Ethics, Part IV, Props. 44–73 Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. VI RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Vol. 10 Bacon, Of Youth and Age, Vol. 7; Of Love, Vol. 10 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Galileo, Starry Messenger, Vol. 8 Gogol, Overcoat, Vol. 2 Tolstoy, What Men Live By, Vol. 3 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON, 1850–1894 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde Vol. 2, pages 288–341 S H E R I DA N, S I N G E R, ST E V E N S O N

Syntopical Guide274 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon GOOD AND EVIL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6a: Knowledge, wisdom, and virtue: the relation of being good and knowing what is good Topic 6b: The need for experience of evil MEDICINE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1: The profession of medicine, its aims and obligations: the relation of physician to patient; the place of the physician in society; medical ethics Topic 6a: The distinction between sanity and insanity: the con- cept of mental health and the nature of madness MIND, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7c: The conscious, preconscious and unconscious activi- ties of mind Topic 8: The pathology of mind: the loss or abeyance of reason Topic 8b: The causes of mental pathology: organic and func- tional factors Topic 8c: The abnormality peculiar to mind: systematic delusion RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Ajax Hippocrates, Vol. 9, Oath; Law Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part II, Bk. V, Chap. 4; Part IV, Bk. XI, Chaps. 8–9 James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chaps. VI, VIII, X Freud, Vol. 54, Unconscious; General Introduction to Psycho-Analysis, Part III, Lecture 26; New Introductory Lectures, Lecture 31 Conrad, Vol. 59, Heart of Darkness Lawrence, Vol. 60, Prussian Officer RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 Eliot, G., Lifted Veil, Vol. 3 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Mann, Mario and the Magician, Vol. 3 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Poe, Tell-Tale Heart, Vol. 2 Pushkin, Queen of Spades, Vol. 3 The Lantern-Bearers Vol. 7, pages 112–121

275 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: Art as imitation Topic 5: The sources of art in experience, imagination, and inspiration MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 13: The grandeur and misery of man MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7b: The fantastic and the realistic in poetry: the probable and the possible in poetry and history RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Ion Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. II Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One Twain, Vol. 48, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part II, Bk. V, Chap. 5 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 Twain, “Learning the River,” Vol. 6 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 JONATHAN SWIFT, 1667–1745 Resolutions when I Come to Be Old Vol. 7, page 32 A Meditation upon a Broomstick Vol. 7, pages 40–41 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6c: The ages of man: infancy, youth, maturity, senescence; generational conflict Topic 12: Man as an object of laughter and ridicule: comedy and satire ST E V E N S O N, S W I F T

Syntopical Guide276 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristophanes, Vol. 4, Clouds; Birds; Frogs Montaigne, Vol. 23, Our feelings reach out beyond us; Apology for Raymond Sebond Shakespeare, Vol. 24, As You Like It, Act II, Scene VII Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sects. II, VI, VII Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One Ibsen, Vol. 52, Master Builder Chekhov, Vol. 59, Uncle Vania RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Youth and Age, Vol. 7 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Hazlitt, On Swift, Vol. 5 An Essay on Modern Education Vol. 7, pages 33–39 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: The influence of the family in moral training Topic 5d: The order of learning: the organization of the curriculum Topic 8: Education and the state STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: The social structure or stratification of the state Topic 7d: The educational task of the state: the trained intelli- gence of the citizens RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laches; Republic, Bks. II–III Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. VIII Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I, Chaps. 14–15, 21– 24; Bk. II, Chap. 8 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the education of children; Of the affection of fathers for their children Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. V, Chap. I Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, No. 84 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chaps. 2, 8 Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Part IV, Bk. X, Chap. 5 Dewey, Vol. 55, Experience and Education RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Custom and Education, Vol. 7

277 Faraday, Observations on Mental Education, Vol. 7 Franklin, Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania, Vol. 6 Hazlitt, On Swift, Vol. 5 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 A Modest Proposal for Preventing the Children of Ireland from Being a Burden to Their Parents or Country Vol. 7, pages 42–49 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8: Economic justice: justice in production, distribution, and exchange NECESSITY AND CONTINGENCY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5d: The necessity or inevitability of slavery, poverty, war, or crime WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8: The distribution of wealth: the effects of wealth on social status; the problem of poverty Topic 9g: Wealth and poverty in relation to crime and to war between states RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. I, Chaps. 3–11; Bk. II, Chaps. 5–7 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of cannibals Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chap. V Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. I, Chaps. VI–X Marx, Vol. 50, Capital, Part VII, Chap. XXV; Part VIII, Chap. XXVIII Veblen, Vol. 57, Theory of the Leisure Class, Chaps. 1–6 Orwell, Vol. 60, Animal Farm RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Epicurus, Letter to Menoeceus, Vol. 10 Hazlitt, On Swift, Vol. 5 Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute, Vol. 6 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Malthus, “Principle of Population,” Vol. 7 Prescott, “Land of Montezuma,” Vol. 6 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 S W I F T

Syntopical Guide278 Tolstoy, What Men Live By, Vol. 3 Voltaire, “English Men and Ideas: On Inoculation,” Vol. 7 For Swift’s Gulliver’s Travels in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 34 JOHN MILLINGTON SYNGE, 1871–1909 Riders to the Sea Vol. 4, pages 342–352 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4b: The attainability of happiness: the fear of death and the tragic view of human life LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7: The causes and occurrence of death: the transition from life to death; homicide Topic 8b: The love of life: the instinct of self-preservation; the life instinct PLEASURE AND PAIN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4a: The pleasant and unpleasant in the sphere of emotion: joy and sorrow, delight and grief RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad, Bk. VI Euripides, Vol. 4, Trojan Women Montaigne, Vol. 23, That the taste of good and evil depends in large part on the opinion we have of them Brecht, Vol. 60, Mother Courage and Her Children RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Parents and Children; Of Marriage and Single Life, Vol. 7; Of Death; Of Adversity, Vol. 10 Browne, “Immortality,” Vol. 10 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Crane, Open Boat, Vol. 3 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Gogol, Overcoat, Vol. 2 Lincoln, Meditation on the Divine Will, Vol. 6 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Maupassant, Two Friends, Vol. 2 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10

279 Poe, Masque of the Red Death, Vol. 2 Scott, Two Drovers, Vol. 2 Tolstoy, Death of Ivan Ilyitch; What Men Live By, Vol. 3 CORNELIUS TACITUS, c. 55–c. 120 The Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola Vol. 6, pages 274–298 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4a(4): The role of the individual in history: the great man, hero, or leader HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: The reaction of the community to its good or great men Topic 5: Honor, fame, and the heroic SLAVERY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6d: The imperialistic subjection or enslavement of con- quered peoples or colonial dependencies TYRANNY AND DESPOTISM, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1a: The lawlessness of tyrannical rule: might without right Topic 1b: The injustice of tyrannical government: rule of self-interest Topic 7: The ways of tyrants or despots to attain and maintain power VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7b: Civic virtue: the virtue of the good citizen compared with the virtue of the good man WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6a: Conquest, empire, political expansion as ends of war Topic 10c: The military virtues: the qualities of the professional soldier; education for war RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Apology; Crito Plutarch, Vol. 13, Numa Pompilius; Timoleon; Caius Marius Machiavelli, Vol. 21, Prince Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Julius Caesar; Vol. 25, Coriolanus Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part I Gibbon, Vol. 37, Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire, Chaps. I, III– IV, XVI SWI F T, SYN G E, TAC ITU S

Syntopical Guide280 Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of History, Introduction III Nietzsche, Vol. 43, Beyond Good and Evil, Parts Two and Nine Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chaps. VI, IX–X Conrad, Vol. 59, Heart of Darkness Orwell, Vol. 60, Animal Farm RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Great Place; Of Seditions and Troubles, Vol. 7; Of Adversity, Vol. 10 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 James, W., Great Men and Their Environment, Vol. 7 Jefferson, “Biographical Sketches,” Vol. 6 Prescott, “Land of Montezuma,” Vol. 6 Shaw, Man of Destiny, Vol. 4 Thoreau, Civil Disobedience, Vol. 6 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Woolf, Art of Biography, Vol. 6 For other works by Tacitus in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 14 HENRY DAVID THOREAU, 1817–1862 Civil Disobedience Vol. 6, pages 695–713 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5b(1): Majority rule and minority or proportional representation GOVERNMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1c: The ends and limits of government: the criteria of legiti- macy and justice Topic 1f: The abuses and corruptions to which government is subject JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 10b: The legality of unjust laws: the extent of obedience required of the just man in the unjust society LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6a: Obedience to the authority and force of law: the sanctions of conscience and fear; the objective and subjective sanctions of law; law, duty, and right

281 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aeschylus, Vol. 4, Prometheus Bound Sophocles, Vol. 4, Antigone Euripides, Vol. 4, Medea Aristophanes, Vol. 4, Lysistrata Plato, Vol. 6, Apology; Crito; Republic, Bk. VIII Aquinas, Vol. 18, Summa Theologica, Part I–II, Q 96, Art. 4; Part II– II, Q 42 Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part II, Chap. 21 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the useful and the honorable Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Richard III; King Richard II; King Henry IV, First Part; King Henry IV, Second Part Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chaps. XI–XII Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part I Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, On Liberty Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part II, Chaps. 5–7 Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. X RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 Calhoun, “Concurrent Majority,” Vol. 7 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Great Documents, Virginia Declaration of Rights; Declaration of Inde- pendence, Vol. 6 Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 Jefferson, “Virginia Constitution,” Vol. 6 Lincoln, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Paine, “Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776,” Vol. 6 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 A Plea for Captain John Brown Vol. 6, pages 714–732 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon COURAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7a: The courage required of citizens and statesmen: the political recognition of courage JUSTICE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: Justice and equality: the kinds of justice in relation to the measure and modes of equality and inequality Topic 6e: Justice and natural rights as the source of civil liberty REVOLUTION, Vol. 2, especially TAC ITU S, TH O R EAU

Syntopical Guide282 Topic 6a: The right of rebellion: the circumstances justifying civil disobedience or violent insurrection SLAVERY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3c: The emancipation or manumission of slaves: the rebel- lion of slaves RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Antigone; Ajax Aristophanes, Vol. 4, Peace Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. III, Chaps. 12–13 Aquinas, Vol. 18, Summa Theologica, Part I–II, Q 92, Art. 1, Reply Obj. 4; Q 96, Art. 4; Part II–II, Q 42 Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chap. IV Montesquieu, Vol. 35, Spirit of Laws, Bk. XV, Chaps. 9–18 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chap. 7 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part II, Chap. 10; Vol. 2, Part II, Chap. 1 Twain, Vol. 48, Adventures of Huckleberry Finn RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Seditions and Troubles, Vol. 7 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute; First Inaugural Address; Second Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Woolf, Art of Biography, Vol. 6 ALEXIS DE TOCQUEVILLE, 1805–1859 “Observations on American Life and Government” from Democracy in America Vol. 6, pages 564–690 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3c: Comparison of democracy, aristocracy, and monarchy with respect to efficiency Topic 4a(1): Universal suffrage: the abolition of privileged classes Topic 4b: The democratic realization of popular sovereignty: the safeguarding of natural rights Topic 4c: The infirmities of democracy in practice and the re- forms or remedies for these defects GOVERNMENT, Vol. 1, especially

283 Topic 1g(3): The sovereign people: the community as the source of governmental sovereignty Topic 2d: The influence of different forms of government on the formation of human character LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1f: The freedom of equals under government: the equality of citizenship Topic 2c: Freedom in the sphere of economic enterprise: free trade; freedom from governmental restrictions MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6b: The equality or inequality of men and women STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2e: The political structure of the state: its determination by the form of government RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. VIII Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. III, Chaps. 8–13; Bk. IV, Chaps. 3–9; Bk. V Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chap. XIX Rousseau, Vol. 35, Social Contract, Bk. II, Chaps. 3–4 Kant, Vol. 39, Science of Right, Second Part Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 12, 39, 62, 73 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chaps. 6–9 Hegel, Vol. 43, Philosophy of Right, Additions; Philosophy of History, Fourth Part RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Calhoun, “Concurrent Majority,” Vol. 7 Crèvecoeur, “Making of Americans,” Vol. 6 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6; Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 Franklin, Proposal for Promoting Useful Knowledge among the British Plantations in America; Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania, Vol. 6 Great Documents, Declaration of Independence, Vol. 6 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Jefferson, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute; First Inaugural Address; Letter to Horace Greeley; Second Inaugural Address; Last Public Address, Vol. 6 Thoreau, Civil Disobedience, Vol. 6 Washington, Farewell Address, Vol. 6 Whitman, Preface to Leaves of Grass, Vol. 5 For Tocqueville’s Democracy in America in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 44 TH O R EAU, TO C Q U EVI LLE

Syntopical Guide284 LEO TOLSTOY, 1828–1910 The Death of Ivan Ilyitch Vol. 3, pages 646–699 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(5): The importance of friendship and love for happiness Topic 4b: The attainability of happiness: the fear of death and the tragic view of human life LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7: The causes and occurrence of death: the transition from life to death; homicide Topic 8b: The love of life: the instinct of self-preservation; the life instinct Topic 8d: The fear of death: the attitude of the hero, the philoso- pher, the poet, the martyr LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b(2): Self-love in relation to the love of others: vanity and self-interest PLEASURE AND PAIN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4e: The kinds of pain: the pain of sense and the pain of loss or deprivation RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Euripides, Vol. 4, Alcestis Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. X Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of practice Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. III Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Bk. VI, Chap. 1 James, H., Vol. 59, Beast in the Jungle Hemingway, Vol. 60, Short Happy Life of Francis Macomber RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Death, Vol. 10 Browne, “Immortality,” Vol. 10 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Gogol, Overcoat, Vol. 2 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6

285 The Three Hermits Vol. 3, pages 700–706 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon GOD, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7d: Grace Topic 7e: Miracles HAPPINESS, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7c(2): The joy of the blessed: the communion of saints RELIGION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: Prayer and supplication: their efficacy SIN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 7: Faith and good works in relation to salvation from sin: justification by faith alone RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Augustine, Vol. 16, City of God, Bk. XXII, Chaps. 8–9 Aquinas, Vol. 18, Summa Theologica, Part I–II, Q 68; Q 109, Arts. 7–10 Calvin, Vol. 20, Institutes of the Christian Religion, Bk. II, Chap. III; Bk. III Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sects. IV, VII Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Bk. II, Chap. 3 Barth, Vol. 55, Word of God and the Word of Man, Chap. I RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, Saint Thomas Aquinas, Vol. 10 Bacon, Of Discourse; Of Studies, Vol. 5 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Melville, Billy Budd, Vol. 3 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Wilde, Happy Prince, Vol. 2 What Men Live By Vol. 3, pages 707–727 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon GOD, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5h: God’s love: the diffusion of the divine goodness GOOD AND EVIL, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2a: God’s goodness as diffusive, causing the goodness of things: God’s love T O L S T O Y

Syntopical Guide286 LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: Friendship and love in relation to virtue and happiness Topic 3d: The heroism of friendship and the sacrifices of love Topic 5b(1): The precepts of charity: the law of love RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Augustine, Vol. 16, On Christian Doctrine, Bk. I, Chaps. 22–30 Aquinas, Vol. 17, Summa Theologica, First Part, Q 20 Chaucer, Vol. 19, Canterbury Tales, Tale of Melibee Dostoevsky, Vol. 52, Brothers Karamazov, Bk. VI, Chap. 3 Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. VIII–IX RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Sphinx, Vol. 8; Of Love, Vol. 10 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Ruskin, Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age, Vol. 7 Sheridan, School for Scandal, Vol. 4 Singer, Spinoza of Market Street, Vol. 3 Synge, Riders to the Sea, Vol. 4 Wilde, Happy Prince, Vol. 2 For Tolstoy’s War and Peace in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 51 IVAN TURGENEV, 1818–1883 First Love Vol. 3, pages 217–271 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon FAMILY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6e: The initiation of children into adult life Topic 7a: Marriage and love: romantic, conjugal, and illicit love Topic 7d: The emotional impact of family life upon the child: the domestic triangle; the symbolic roles of father and mother LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1e: The intensity and power of love: its increase or de- crease; its constructive or destructive force Topic 2a(1): The sexual instinct: its relation to other instincts

287 PLEASURE AND PAIN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4a: The pleasant and unpleasant in the sphere of emotion: joy and sorrow, delight and grief Topic 7a: Pleasure and pain in relation to love and friendship RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Euripides, Vol. 4, Hippolytus Dante, Vol. 19, Divine Comedy, Inferno, Canto V; Paradiso, Canto VIII Shakespeare, Vol. 24, Taming of the Shrew, Act I, Scene II–Act III; Romeo and Juliet; Vol. 25, Hamlet Eliot, G., Vol. 46, Middlemarch Freud, Vol. 54, General Introduction to Psycho-Analysis, Part III, Chap. 21 Proust, Vol. 59, Swann in Love Cather, Vol. 59, Lost Lady RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Anderson, I’m a Fool, Vol. 2 Anonymous, Aucassin and Nicolette, Vol. 2 Apuleius, “Cupid and Psyche,” Vol. 3 Bacon, Of Youth and Age; Of Parents and Children, Vol. 7; Of Love, Vol. 10 Chekhov, Darling, Vol. 3 Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 Dostoevsky, White Nights, Vol. 3 Galsworthy, Apple-Tree, Vol. 3 Hawthorne, Rappaccini’s Daughter, Vol. 3 Pater, “Art of Life,” Vol. 10 Schopenhauer, On Style, Vol. 5 MARK TWAIN (SAMUEL CLEMENS), 1835–1910 The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg Vol. 2, pages 346–386 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3b: The conditions of honor or fame and the causes of dishonor or infamy PUNISHMENT, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3c: Guilt, repentance, and the moral need for punishment Topic 5c: The pain of remorse and the torment of conscience: the atonement for sin TO L STOY, TU RG E N EV, T WA I N

Syntopical Guide288 TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 8a: Prevarication and perjury: the injustice of lying or bearing false witness VIRTUE AND VICE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2c: The appearances of virtue: imperfect or conditional virtues; the counterfeits of virtue; natural or tempera- mental dispositions which simulate virtue Topic 4e(3): Circumstances as affecting the morality of human acts Topic 9: The advance or decline of human morality RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Sophocles, Vol. 4, Philoctetes Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of conscience Shakespeare, Vol. 25, Hamlet Milton, Vol. 29, Paradise Lost; Areopagitica Molière, Vol. 31, Tartuffe Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Practical Reason, First Part, Bk. I, Chap. III Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One Dickens, Vol. 47, Little Dorrit Fitzgerald, Vol. 60, Great Gatsby RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Riches, Vol. 7; Of Truth, Vol. 10 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Butler, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians,” Vol. 2 Fitzgerald, Diamond as Big as the Ritz, Vol. 3 Hemingway, Killers, Vol. 2 Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 James, H., Pupil, Vol. 3 Mann, Mario and the Magician, Vol. 3 Molière, Misanthrope, Vol. 4 O’Neill, Emperor Jones, Vol. 4 Sheridan, School for Scandal, Vol. 4 “Learning the River” from Life on the Mississippi Vol. 6, pages 50–98 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5f: Learning apart from teachers and books: the role of experience

289 EXPERIENCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6a: Experience as indispensable to sound judgment and prudence KNOWLEDGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 6b(2): Memory as knowledge Topic 8b(4): The possession or pursuit of knowledge as a good or satisfaction: its relation to pleasure and pain; its contribution to happiness MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2b: Recollection: factors influencing ease and adequacy of recall Topic 2c: The association of ideas: controlled and free association; reminiscence and reverie Topic 3: Remembering as an act of knowledge and as a source of knowledge RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I, especially Chaps. 21–24; Bk. II Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of three kinds of association Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Human Understanding, Bk. II, Chaps. IX–X Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Part One Melville, Vol. 48, Moby Dick, Chap. 24 James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XVI Joyce, Vol. 59, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Custom and Education, Vol. 7 Conrad, Youth, Vol. 2 Defoe, Robinson Crusoe, Vol. 2 Emerson, Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Schopenhauer, On Education, Vol. 7 Stevenson, Lantern-Bearers, Vol. 7 For Twain’s Adventures of Huckleberry Finn in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 48 JOHN TYNDALL, 1820–1893 “Michael Faraday” from Faraday as a Discoverer Vol. 8, pages 8–28 T WA I N, T Y N DA L L

Syntopical Guide290 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ELEMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3: The theory of the elements in natural philosophy, physics, and chemistry EXPERIENCE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The theory of experimentation in scientific method INDUCTION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: The role of induction in the development of science: the methods of experimental and enumerative induction MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: Man’s knowledge of man MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6d: Theories of universal gravitation PHYSICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4: The experimental method in the study of nature Topic 5: The utility of physics: the invention of machines; the techniques of engineering; the mastery of nature RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Gilbert, Vol. 26, On the Loadstone Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Parts I–IV Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Bks. I, III Poincaré, Vol. 56, Science and Hypothesis, Preface; Chap. 9 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Sphinx, Vol. 8 Curie, Discovery of Radium, Vol. 8 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Faraday, Chemical History of a Candle, Vol. 8 Galton, “Classification of Human Ability,” Vol. 8 Helmholtz, On the Conservation of Force, Vol. 8 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Woolf, Art of Biography, Vol. 6 For Faraday’s Experimental Researches in Electricity in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 42

291 VOLTAIRE, 1694–1778 Micromégas Vol. 2, pages 241–256 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ASTRONOMY AND COSMOLOGY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7: The particular heavenly bodies in the solar system and the Milky Way Topic 11: Astronomy as the study of the universe as a whole: cosmology MAN, Vol. 2, especially Topic 10c: Man as an integral part of the universe: his station in the cosmos Topic 10d: The finiteness and insufficiency of man: his sense of being dependent and ordered to something be- yond himself Topic 12: Man as an object of laughter and ridicule: comedy and satire MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: The objects of mathematics: ideas or abstractions; num- ber, figure, extension, relation, order REASONING, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3c: Lack of truth in reasoning: sophistical arguments; mate- rial fallacies SOUL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1: Conceptions of soul Topic 2c: The kinds of soul and the modes of life: vegetative, sensitive, and rational souls and their special powers RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Meno; Republic, Bk. VI; Philebus Nicomachus, Vol. 10, Introduction to Arithmetic, Bk. I Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Defi- nitions–Laws; Bk. III Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part I, Chaps. I–VIII Eddington, Vol. 56, Expanding Universe RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Boeke, Cosmic View, Vol. 8 Campbell, Measurement, Vol. 9 Clifford, Postulates of the Science of Space, Vol. 9 Eddington, Running-Down of the Universe, Vol. 8 Epicurus, Letter to Herodotus, Vol. 10 TYN DA L L, VO LTA I R E

Syntopical Guide292 Galileo, Starry Messenger, Vol. 8 Poincaré, Space, Vol. 9 Singer, Spinoza of Market Street, Vol. 3 Whitehead, “On Mathematical Method,” Vol. 9 “English Men and Ideas” from Letters on the English Vol. 7, pages 332–378 “On the Parliament,” pages 332–334 “On the Government,” pages 334–338 “On Trade,” pages 338–339 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon LIBERTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1h: Civil liberty under diverse forms of government Topic 2: The issues of civil liberty MONARCHY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: Modifications of absolute monarchy: other embodi- ments of the monarchial principle STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5: The social structure or stratification of the state Topic 9a: Commerce and trade between states: commercial rival- ries and trade agreements; free trade and tariffs WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2: The kinds of war WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4: The exchange of wealth or the circulation of commodi- ties: the processes of commerce or trade RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Milton, Vol. 29, Areopagitica Locke, Vol. 33, Letter Concerning Toleration; Concerning Civil Govern- ment, Chaps. V, VII, XII–XIV, XIX Smith, Vol. 36, Wealth of Nations, Bk. IV, Chaps. I, II–III, VII Constitution of the United States of America, Vol. 40 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chap. 3 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 2, Part III; Part IV, Chaps. 6–7 Keynes, Vol. 57, General Theory of Employment, Interest and Money, Chaps. 22–23 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Seditions and Troubles; Of Custom and Education, Vol. 7

293 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Great Documents, English Bill of Rights; Declaration of Independence, Vol. 6 Hume, Of Refinement in the Arts; Of Money; Of the Balance of Trade; Of Taxes, Vol. 7 Jefferson, First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6 Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute, Vol. 6 “English Men and Ideas” (continued) “On Inoculation,” Vol. 7, pages 339–343 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MEDICINE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3d: The factors in prevention and therapy RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Hippocrates, Vol. 9, Regimen in Acute Diseases Molière, Vol. 31, Would-Be Invalid RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Ibsen, Enemy of the People, Vol. 4 Molière, Doctor in Spite of Himself, Vol. 4 Swift, Modest Proposal, Vol. 7 “English Men and Ideas” (continued) “On the Lord Bacon,” Vol. 7, pages 343–346 “On Mr. Locke,” Vol. 7, pages 346–351 “On Descartes and Sir Isaac Newton,” Vol. 7, pages 352–356 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4c: The mechanistic versus the organismic account of nature PHILOSOPHY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3d: The methodological reformation of philosophy: the role of language in philosophy SOUL, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1: Conceptions of soul RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Bacon, Vol. 28, Novum Organum Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method; Meditation II; Meditation VI Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Bk. III VO LTA I R E

Syntopical Guide294 Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Human Understanding, Bk. II, Chaps. X–XI, XXIII, XXVII; Bk. IV, Chap. XII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Sphinx, Vol. 8 Bernard, Experimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies, Vol. 8 Campanella, “Arguments for and against Galileo,” Vol. 8 “English Men and Ideas” (continued) “On Attraction,” Vol. 7, pages 356–363 “On Sir Isaac Newton’s Optics,” Vol. 7, pages 363–366 “On Infinities in Geometry, and Sir Isaac Newton’s Chronology,” Vol. 7, pages 366–371 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3d: Calculus: the measurement of irregular areas and vari- able motions Topic 6: Basic concepts of mechanics SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b(1): The utility of science: the applications of experimen- tal knowledge in the mastery of nature; machinery and inventions Topic 5: Scientific method RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Descartes, Vol. 28, Geometry Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Bk. I, Sects. I, XI–XIII; Bk. II, Sect. II; Bk. III; Optics, Bks. I–II Huygens, Vol. 32, Treatise on Light, Chaps. I–III Berkeley, Vol. 33, Principles of Human Knowledge, Sects. 123–132 Heisenberg, Vol. 56, Physics and Philosophy, Chap. 11 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Boeke, Cosmic View, Vol. 8 Clifford, Postulates of the Science of Space, Vol. 9 Eddington, Running-Down of the Universe, Vol. 8 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Faraday, Chemical History of a Candle, Vol. 8 Poincaré, Space, Vol. 9

295 “English Men and Ideas” (continued) “On the Regard That Ought to be Shown to Men of Letters,” Vol. 7, pages 371–374 “On the Royal Society and Other Academies,” Vol. 7, pages 374–378 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3a: The reaction of the community to its good or great men Topic 4b: The scale of honor in the organization of the state: the just distribution of honors SCIENCE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6b: The place of science in society: the social conditions favorable to the advancement of science RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 8, Politics, Bk. III, Chap. 13 Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of honorary awards Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Bk. II Whitehead, Vol. 55, Science and the Modern World, Chaps. I, XII–XIII Heisenberg, Vol. 56, Physics and Philosophy, Chap. 11 Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. V RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Sphinx, Vol. 8 Campanella, “Arguments for and against Galileo,” Vol. 8 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Franklin, Proposal for Promoting Useful Knowledge among the British Plantations in America, Vol. 6 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 Tyndall, “Michael Faraday,” Vol. 8 Whitman, Preface to Leaves of Grass, Vol. 5 “The Philosophy of Common Sense” from Philosophical Dictionary Vol. 10, pages 453–474 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 12: The history of the arts: progress in art as measuring stages of civilization VO LTA I R E

Syntopical Guide296 ASTRONOMY AND COSMOLOGY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 9: The influence of the stars and planets upon the character and actions of men DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3c: Comparison of democracy, aristocracy, and monarchy with respect to efficiency DESIRE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2c: Desire as a cause of action: motivation, purpose, ambi- tion; voluntariness LAW, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4e: The relation of natural law to natural rights and natural justice Topic 5e: The mutability or variability of positive law: the mainte- nance or change of laws LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 2b: Friendly, tender, or altruistic love: fraternal love Topic 2b(2): Self-love in relation to the love of others: vanity and self-interest POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5a: The aim of poetry to instruct as well as to delight: the pretensions or deceptions of the poet as teacher STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3c: The condition of man in the state of nature and in the state of civil society: the state of war in relation to the state of nature Topic 5c: The classes or subgroups arising from the division of labor or distinctions of birth: the social hierarchy TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3b(3): Truth in reasoning: the truth of premises in relation to the truth of conclusions; logical validity and truth about reality TYRANNY AND DESPOTISM, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The choice between tyranny or despotism and anarchy RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. II–III; Statesman Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bks. VIII–IX Hobbes, Vol. 21, Leviathan, Part II, Chap. 19 Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chaps. V–IX Rousseau, Vol. 35, Discourse on the Origin of Inequality, First Part Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chap. 4

297 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Introduction; Vol. 1, Part II, Chaps. 5–6 Marx, Vol. 50, Capital, Part IV, Chap. XIV James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chaps. X, XXVIII Veblen, Vol. 57, Theory of the Leisure Class, Introduction Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chaps. XIX–XXIII RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Discourse, Vol. 5; Of Friendship; Of Truth, Vol. 10 Cicero, On Friendship, Vol. 10 Clifford, Ethics of Belief, Vol. 10 Emerson, Nature, Vol. 10 Erskine, Moral Obligation to be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Guizot, “Civilization,” Vol. 6 Mill, J. S., Nature, Vol. 10 Sainte-Beuve, Montaigne, Vol. 5 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 For Voltaire’s Candide in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 34 GEORGE WASHINGTON, 1732–1799 Circular Letter to the Governors of All the States on Disbanding the Army Vol. 6, pages 474–483 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7c: The challenge of war and peace: the citizen army GOVERNMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5d: Confederation and federal union: the division of juris- diction between state and federal governments WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 6b: Liberty, justice, honor, peace as ends of war RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Laws, Bk. VIII Shakespeare, Vol. 25, King Lear, Act II Locke, Vol. 33, Concerning Civil Government, Chaps. XVI, XIX Kant, Vol. 39, Science of Right, Second Part Articles of Confederation, Vol. 40 Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 31–34 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part I, Chap. 8; Vol. 2, Part III, Chaps. 22–26 VO LTA I R E, WA S H I N GTO N

Syntopical Guide298 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Bacon, Of Seditions and Troubles, Vol. 7 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Jefferson, “Biographical Sketches,” Vol. 6 Lincoln, Second Inaugural Address; Last Public Address, Vol. 6 Paine, “Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776,” Vol. 6 Farewell Address Vol. 6, pages 484–497 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4c: The infirmities of democracy in practice and the re- forms or remedies for these defects DUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 10: Political obligation: cares, functions, loyalties GOVERNMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5a: Foreign policy: the making of treaties; the conduct of war and peace STATE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3e: Love and justice as the bond of men in states: friendship and patriotism RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bk. IV Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Richard II Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part I Montesquieu, Vol. 35, Spirit of Laws, Bk. XII, Chaps. 19–22 Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 49–50 Mill, J. S., Vol. 40, Representative Government, Chaps. 17–18 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part II, Chaps. 5, 7– 8; Vol. 2, Part IV, Chaps. 6–7 Weber, Vol. 58, Essays in Sociology, Chap. IV RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Bacon, Of Great Place; Of Seditions and Troubles, Vol. 7 Burke, Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol, Vol. 7 Calhoun, “Concurrent Majority,” Vol. 7 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Emerson, Self-Reliance, Vol. 10 Jefferson, “Virginia Constitution”; “Biographical Sketches”; First Inaugural Address, Vol. 6

299WA S H I N GTO N, W H I T E H E A D ALFRED NORTH WHITEHEAD, 1861–1947 “On Mathematical Method” from An Introduction to Mathematics Vol. 9, pages 51–67 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: The apprehension of mathematical objects: by intuition, imagination, construction; the forms of time and space Topic 3c: Analysis and synthesis: function and variable Topic 3d: Symbols and formulas: the attainment of generality Topic 4c: The use of proportions and equations Topic 5: The applications of mathematics to physical phenomena: the utility of mathematics MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The use of mathematics in mechanics: the dependence of progress in mechanics on mathematical discovery Topic 4a: Terrestrial and celestial mechanics: the mechanics of finite bodies and of particles or atoms Topic 6d(2): The relation of mass and gravitational force: the curvature of space Topic 7e: Electricity: electrostatics and electrodynamics PHYSICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1b: The relation of the philosophy of nature to mathemat- ics: mathematical method and mathematical principles in natural philosophy Topic 3: Mathematical physics: observation and measurement in relation to mathematical formulations QUANTITY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5c: The quantity of motion: momentum, velocity, acceleration Topic 5d: Mass: its relation to weight Topic 5e: Force: its measure and the measure of its effect UNIVERSAL AND PARTICULAR, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4c: The abstraction of universal concepts from the particu- lars of sense Lincoln, First Inaugural Address; Last Public Address, Vol. 6 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Rousseau, Lasting Peace through the Federation of Europe, Vol. 7

Syntopical Guide300 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Parmenides Archimedes, Vol. 10, On Floating Bodies Plutarch, Vol. 13, Marcellus Galileo, Vol. 26, Dialogues Concerning the Two New Sciences, Third Day Descartes, Vol. 28, Geometry, Second Book Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Bk. I, Sects. XI–XIII; Bk. III Swift, Vol. 34, Gulliver’s Travels, Part III Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Pure Reason, Introduction Faraday, Vol. 42, Experimental Researches in Electricity Poincaré, Vol. 56, Science and Hypothesis Einstein, Vol. 56, Relativity: The Special and the General Theory Hardy, Vol. 56, Mathematician’s Apology RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bernard, Experimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies, Vol. 8 Campbell, Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science, Vol. 9 Einstein and Infeld, “Rise and Decline of Classical Physics,” Vol. 8 Euler, Seven Bridges of Königsberg, Vol. 9 Forsyth, Mathematics, in Life and Thought, Vol. 9 Hogben, Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization, Vol. 9 Poincaré, Mathematical Creation, Vol. 9 Russell, Study of Mathematics; Mathematics and the Metaphysicians, Vol. 9 On the Nature of a Calculus Vol. 9, pages 68–78 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MATHEMATICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1d: The ideal of a universal mathesis: the unification of arithmetic and geometry Topic 3d: Symbols and formulas: the attainment of generality Topic 4: Mathematical techniques RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Descartes, Vol. 28, Geometry Newton, Vol. 32, Mathematical Principles of Natural Philosophy, Bk. I, Sect. I; Bk. II, Sect. II Poincaré, Vol. 56, Science and Hypothesis, Part I RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Campbell, Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science, Vol. 9

301W H I T E H E A D, W H I T M A N Dantzig, Fingerprints; Empty Column, Vol. 9 Russell, Mathematics and the Metaphysicians, Vol. 9 For other works by Whitehead in Great Books of the Western World, see Vols. 55 and 56 WALT WHITMAN, 1819–1892 Preface to Leaves of Grass Vol. 5, pages 247–259 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon NATURE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 2a: Nature and art: the imitation of nature; cooperation with nature POETRY, Vol. 2, especially Topic 3: The inspiration or genius of the poet: the role of experience and imagination; the influence of the po- etic tradition Topic 5b: Poetry contrasted with history and philosophy: the dispraise and defense of the poet Topic 8b: Critical standards and artistic rules with respect to the language of poetry: the distinction between prose and verse; the measure of excellence in style RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Republic, Bks. II–III Aristotle, Vol. 8, On Poetics Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Prologue; Part Two, Chap. 16 Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, First Part, Sect. I Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 2, Part I, Chaps. 13, 17 Goethe, Vol. 45, Faust, Prelude in the Theatre James, W., Vol. 53, Principles of Psychology, Chap. XXII Joyce, Vol. 59, Portrait of the Artist as a Young Man RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Adams, “United States in 1800,” Vol. 6 Arnold, Study of Poetry; Sweetness and Light, Vol. 5 Bacon, Of Death, Vol. 10 Crèvecoeur, “Making of Americans,” Vol. 6 Eliot, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Lamb, Sanity of True Genius, Vol. 5

Syntopical Guide302 Schiller, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry, Vol. 5 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 Tocqueville, “Observations on American Life and Government,” Vol. 6 Death of Abraham Lincoln Vol. 6, pages 174–183 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon DEMOCRACY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4: The praise of democracy: the ideal state HISTORY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4a(4): The role of the individual in history: the great man, hero, or leader HONOR, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5d: The estimation of the role of the hero in history LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7: The causes and occurrence of death: the transition from life to death; homicide WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4b: The factors responsible for civil strife RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Phaedo Plutarch, Vol. 13, Caesar Shakespeare, Vol. 25, King Lear; Antony and Cleopatra; Coriolanus Hamilton, Madison, Jay, Vol. 40, Federalist, Nos. 9–10 Tocqueville, Vol. 44, Democracy in America, Vol. 1, Part II, Chap. 6 Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Second Epilogue Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan, Preface RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Seditions and Troubles, Vol. 7; Of Death, Vol. 10 Browne, “Immortality,” Vol. 10 Carlyle, Hero as King, Vol. 6 Cicero, On Old Age, Vol. 10 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Lincoln, Address at Cooper Institute; First Inaugural Address; Letter to Horace Greeley; Meditation on the Divine Will; Gettysburg Address; Second Inaugural Address; Last Public Address, Vol. 6 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Thoreau, Plea for Captain John Brown, Vol. 6 Tolstoy, Death of Ivan Ilyitch, Vol. 3 Woolf, Art of Biography, Vol. 6

303WH ITMAN, WI LD E, WÖ H LE R OSCAR WILDE, 1854–1900 The Happy Prince Vol. 2, pages 261–268 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon LOVE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3d: The heroism of friendship and the sacrifices of love Topic 5b(1): The precepts of charity: the law of love WEALTH, Vol. 2, especially Topic 10e(1): Almsgiving to the needy and the impoverished RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad, Bks. XXIII–XXIV Sophocles, Vol. 4, Antigone Euripides, Vol. 4, Alcestis Augustine, Vol. 16, Confessions, Bk. IX Aquinas, Vol. 18, Summa Theologica, Part II–II, Q 23 Chaucer, Vol. 19, Canterbury Tales, Tale of Melibee Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of three good women Milton, Vol. 29, Paradise Lost, Bk. III Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sect. X RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Love; Of Friendship, Vol. 10 Balzac, Passion in the Desert, Vol. 3 Bunin, Gentleman from San Francisco, Vol. 3 Chekhov, Darling, Vol. 3 Dinesen, Sorrow-Acre, Vol. 3 Flaubert, Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller, Vol. 3 Gogol, Overcoat, Vol. 2 Kipling, Mowgli’s Brothers, Vol. 2 Lamb, Dream Children, Vol. 5 Lawrence, Rocking-Horse Winner, Vol. 3 Tolstoy, Three Hermits; What Men Live By, Vol. 3 FRIEDRICH WÖHLER, 1800–1882 On the Artificial Production of Urea Vol. 8, pages 312–314 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ANIMAL, Vol. 1, especially

Syntopical Guide304 Topic 1a: Characteristics of animal life: the animal soul Topic 1e: The conception of the animal as a machine or automaton ELEMENT, Vol. 1, especially Topic 3c: The mutability or transmutation of the elements: radioactive decay Topic 3d: Combinations of the elements: compounds and mixtures LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 1: The nature and cause of life: the soul as the principle of life in organic bodies Topic 2: Continuity or discontinuity between living and nonliving things: comparison of vital powers and activities with the potentialities and motions of inert bodies MECHANICS, Vol. 2, especially Topic 4b: The explanation of qualities and qualitative change in terms of quantity and motion Topic 4c: The mechanistic versus the organismic account of nature RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristotle, Vol. 7, On the Soul, Bk. II Lucretius, Vol. 11, Way Things Are, Bk. III Descartes, Vol. 28, Discourse on Method, Part V Lavoisier, Vol. 42, Elements of Chemistry, First Part, Chaps. V–XVII; Third Part, Chaps. VIII–IX Heisenberg, Vol. 56, Physics and Philosophy, Chaps. 6, 9 Schrödinger, Vol. 56, What Is Life? Waddington, Vol. 56, Nature of Life, Chap. 1 RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bernard, Experimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies, Vol. 8 Curie, Discovery of Radium, Vol. 8 Faraday, Chemical History of a Candle, Vol. 8 Mendeleev, “Genesis of a Law of Nature,” Vol. 8 VIRGINIA WOOLF, 1882–1941 How Should One Read a Book? Vol. 5, pages 5–14

305WÖ H LE R, WO O LF SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7a: Art as a source of pleasure or delight Topic 7b: The judgment of excellence in art BEAUTY, Vol. 1, especially Topic 5: Judgments of beauty: the objective and the subjective in aesthetic judgments or judgments of taste; judgments of style or fashion based on wealth or honor MIND, Vol. 2, especially Topic 1e(2): The relation of judgment to pleasure and displea- sure: its application in the realm of art; aesthetic finality RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plato, Vol. 6, Phaedrus; Republic, Bks. II–III Rabelais, Vol. 22, Gargantua and Pantagruel, Bk. I, Author’s Prologue Cervantes, Vol. 27, Don Quixote, Part One, Chaps. 32, 47–50 Pascal, Vol. 30, Pensées, Sects. I, VI Kant, Vol. 39, Critique of Judgement, Introduction—First Part Huizinga, Vol. 58, Waning of the Middle Ages, Chap. XX RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Arnold, Study of Poetry, Vol. 5 Bacon, Of Beauty, Vol. 5 Eliot, T. S., Dante; Tradition and the Individual Talent, Vol. 5 Hazlitt, My First Acquaintance with Poets, Vol. 5 Hume, Of the Standard of Taste, Vol. 5; Of the Study of History, Vol. 7 Johnson, Preface to Shakespeare, Vol. 5 Lucian, Way to Write History, Vol. 6 Schopenhauer, On the Comparative Place of Interest and Beauty in Works of Art, Vol. 5; On Education, Vol. 7 Shelley, Defence of Poetry, Vol. 5 The Art of Biography Vol. 6, pages 186–192 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon MEMORY AND IMAGINATION, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5a: The distinction between reproductive and creative imagination: the representative image and the imagina- tive construct TRUTH, Vol. 2, especially

Syntopical Guide306 Topic 4b: Truth in science and poetry: the truth of fact and the truth of fiction RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Plutarch, Vol. 13, Lives of the Noble Grecians and Romans Montaigne, Vol. 23, Note to the Reader; Of books; Of repentance Bacon, Vol. 28, Advancement of Learning, Second Book Boswell, Vol. 41, Life of Samuel Johnson Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan, Preface RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Curie, Discovery of Radium, Vol. 8 Darwin, Autobiography, Vol. 8 De Quincey, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power, Vol. 5 Emerson, Thoreau, Vol. 6 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Hazlitt, On Swift, Vol. 5 Jefferson, “Biographical Sketches,” Vol. 6 Lucian, Way to Write History, Vol. 6 Mill, J. S., “Childhood and Youth,” Vol. 6 Tacitus, Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola, Vol. 6 Tyndall, “Michael Faraday,” Vol. 8 Whitman, Death of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Xenophon, “Character of Socrates,” Vol. 6 For Woolf’s To the Lighthouse in Great Books of the Western World, see Vol. 60 XENOPHON, c. 430–c. 355 B.C. “The March to the Sea” from The Persian Expedition Vol. 6, pages 196–222 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon ART, Vol. 1, especially Topic 9c: The arts of war COURAGE, Vol. 1, especially Topic 7c: Courage in war WAR AND PEACE, Vol. 2, especially Topic 5a: The moral consequences of war: its effects on the hap- piness and virtue of men and on the welfare of women and children

307WO OLF, XE NOP HON Topic 10b: Different types of soldiery: mercenaries, volunteers, conscripts, militia RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Homer, Vol. 3, Iliad, Bk. XIII Herodotus, Vol. 5, History, Seventh–Eighth Books Thucydides, Vol. 5, History of the Peloponnesian War, Seventh Book Plutarch, Vol. 13, Pericles; Agesilaus; Artaxerxes Shakespeare, Vol. 24, King Henry V Tolstoy, Vol. 51, War and Peace, Bks. 13–14 Freud, Vol. 54, Thoughts for the Times on War and Death Brecht, Vol. 60, Mother Courage and Her Children RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Bacon, Of Adversity, Vol. 10 Long, Power within Us, Vol. 6 Prescott, “Land of Montezuma,” Vol. 6 “The Character of Socrates” from Memorabilia Vol. 6, pages 223–226 SUGGESTED READINGS IN THE Syntopicon EDUCATION, Vol. 1, especially Topic 4a: The possibility and limits of moral education: knowl- edge and virtue Topic 5: The improvement of the mind by teaching and learning LIFE AND DEATH, Vol. 1, especially Topic 8d: The fear of death: the attitude of the hero, the philoso- pher, the poet, the martyr RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Great Books of the Western World Aristophanes, Vol. 4, Clouds Plato, Vol. 6, Symposium; Meno; Apology; Crito; Phaedo; Gorgias; Re- public, Bk. VII Aristotle, Vol. 8, Nicomachean Ethics, Bk. II, Chaps. 1–6; Bk. III, Chaps. 6–9; Bk. VI, Chap. 12–Bk. VII, Chap. 5 Plutarch, Vol. 13, Alcibiades Montaigne, Vol. 23, Of the education of children; Apology for Raymond Sebond Shaw, Vol. 59, Saint Joan RELATED AUTHORS AND WORKS IN Gateway to the Great Books Emerson, Montaigne; or the Skeptic, Vol. 10

Syntopical Guide308 Epictetus, Enchiridion, Vol. 10 Epicurus, Letter to Menoeceus, Vol. 10 Erskine, Moral Obligation to be Intelligent, Vol. 10 Hawthorne, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln, Vol. 6 Hazlitt, Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen, Vol. 5 Plutarch, Contentment, Vol. 10 Thoreau, Civil Disobedience, Vol. 6 Woolf, Art of Biography, Vol. 6

309 Appendix A Plan of Graded Reading It has been pointed out in the Introduction that the selections included inGateway to the Great Books can serve younger as well as less experienced readers as an induction into the reading of the great books, because the works included in this set are generally much shorter than those included in Great Books of the Western World and are in other respects easier to read. This does not mean, however, that it is necessary or even desirable to read entirely through the selections in Gateway to the Great Books before beginning to read some of the works included in Great Books of the Western World. The selections in Gateway to the Great Books are all worth reading in and for themselves, but they have additional value as a means of entry into the world of the great books, the great ideas, and the great conversation. To guide younger or less experienced readers in a progressive course of readings which involves selections from Gateway to the Great Books, the editors have prepared a plan of graded reading, set forth below. It is divided into four parts. The four parts of the plan of graded reading correspond to four levels of reading ability. Part I recommends materials suitable for 7th- and 8th-grade readers (that is, for twelve- to fourteen-year-olds approximately), and for readers whose limited experience places them on this level of ability, whatever their chronological age. The selections from the Gateway set which are here recommended consist mainly of stories, biographies, autobiographies, and short historical accounts. The list, however, does include at least one selection from each volume in the Gateway set. Part II lists readings in Gateway for 9th- and 10th-grade readers. Here we have the longest list of readings in the Gateway set. Though there are still many stories and plays in this list of Gateway readings, the number of nonfiction readings, especially biographical and historical writings, here increases.

Gateway to the Great Books310 Part III lists readings in Gateway for 11th- and 12th-grade readers. The selections from Gateway tend to be longer and somewhat more difficult. Here there are none from Volumes 2 and 4, and a mere scattering of stories from Volume 3. Most of the readings recommended here are taken from Volumes 5–10. Part IV lists selections for readers at the level of the first two years of college. It should be noted that the selections in the Gateway list are taken largely from Volumes 8 and 9 (Natural Science and Mathematics). The lists in Parts I–IV all but exhaust the materials in the Gateway set. Nothing in the Gateway set is too difficult to be read with comprehension by college freshmen and sophomores or by readers of equivalent ability. By the time readers have attained the level of ability corresponding to the difficulty of the selections in Part IV, they should be able to plan their own further reading of the works in Great Books of the Western World; or they may consult the Ten Years of Reading, which is set forth in the book that accompanies the Great Books set called The Great Conversation. Some young or inexperienced readers may at first be discouraged by what appears to be the formidable character of the lists which constitute this plan of graded reading. It is important to remind them, or their parents, that the general tendency in education is toward the reading of more and more difficult materials at younger and younger ages. Humanities courses have for some time been given in the freshman year at many colleges; these include a number of the works listed in Part IV. More recently, there has been a movement to upgrade the high school, to inject into its curriculum, both in the humanities and in the sciences, materials which were formerly considered appropriate only at the college level. In recent years, a cry has been raised against the paucity, even the vacuity, of high school curriculums. The following plan of graded reading takes these tendencies into account. PART I Suggested Readings for the 7th and 8th Grades VOLUME 2 DEFOE, Robinson Crusoe HEMINGWAY, The Killers HUGO, “The Battle with the Cannon” KIPLING, Mowgli’s Brothers MAUPASSANT, Two Friends POE, The Tell-Tale Heart; The Masque of the Red Death SCOTT, The Two Drovers STEVENSON, The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde TWAIN, The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg WILDE, The Happy Prince

311PLAN OF G RADE D READI NG VOLUME 3 CRANE, The Open Boat FLAUBERT, The Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller LAWRENCE, The Rocking-Horse Winner MELVILLE, Billy Budd TOLSTOY, The Three Hermits; What Men Live By VOLUME 4 MOLIÈRE, The Doctor in Spite of Himself SHAW, The Man of Destiny VOLUME 5 HAZLITT, Of Persons One Would Wish to Have Seen LAMB, My First Play; Dream Children, a Reverie WOOLF, How Should One Read a Book? VOLUME 6 CRÈVECOEUR, “The Making of Americans” Declaration of the Rights of Man and of the Citizen HAWTHORNE, Sketch of Abraham Lincoln JEFFERSON, Biographical Sketches LINCOLN, Letter to Horace Greeley; The Gettysburg Address; Second Inaugural Address; Last Public Address PAINE, “A Call to Patriots—December 23, 1776” PLINY THE YOUNGER, “The Eruption of Vesuvius” PRESCOTT, “The Land of Montezuma” The English Bills of Rights The Virginia Declaration of Rights TWAIN, “Learning the River” WHITMAN, Death of Abraham Lincoln XENOPHON, “The March to the Sea” VOLUME 7 HUME, Of the Study of History STEVENSON, The Lantern-Bearers VOLUME 8 BOEKE, Cosmic View CURIE, The Discovery of Radium FABRE, The Sacred Beetle HALDANE, On Being the Right Size TYNDALL, “Michael Faraday” VOLUME 9 DANTZIG, Fingerprints; The Empty Column HOGBEN, Mathematics, the Mirror of Civilization KASNER AND NEWMAN, New Names for Old; Beyond the Googol VOLUME 10 ERSKINE, The Moral Obligation to Be Intelligent

Gateway to the Great Books312 PART II Suggested Readings for the 9th and 10th Grades VOLUME 2 ANDERSON, I’m a Fool ANONYMOUS, Aucassin and Nicolette BUTLER, “Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians” CONRAD, Youth DICKENS, “A Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick” GOGOL, The Overcoat VOLTAIRE, Micromégas VOLUME 3 APULEIUS, “Cupid and Psyche” BALZAC, A Passion in the Desert CHEKHOV, The Darling DOSTOEVSKY, White Nights ELIOT, G., The Lifted Veil GALSWORTHY, The Apple-Tree HAWTHORNE, Rappaccini’s Daughter PUSHKIN, The Queen of Spades VOLUME 4 CHEKHOV, The Cherry Orchard IBSEN, An Enemy of the People O’NEILL, The Emperor Jones SHERIDAN, The School for Scandal SYNGE, Riders to the Sea VOLUME 5 ARNOLD, The Study of Poetry; Sweetness and Light BACON, Of Beauty; Of Discourse; Of Studies DE QUINCEY, Literature of Knowledge and Literature of Power; On the Knocking at the Gate in Macbeth HAZLITT, My First Aquaintance with Poets LAMB, Sanity of True Genius SAINTE-BEUVE, What Is a Classic? SCHOPENHAUER, On Some Forms of Literature WHITMAN, Preface to Leaves of Grass VOLUME 6 ADAMS, “The United States in 1800” CARLYLE, The Hero as King Charter of the United Nations EMERSON, Thoreau FRANKLIN, A Proposal for Promoting Useful Knowledge among

313PLAN OF G RADE D READI NG the British Plantations in America; Proposals Relating to the Education of Youth in Pennsylvania JEFFERSON, “The Virginia Constitution”; First Inaugural Address LA BRUYÈRE, Characters LINCOLN, Address at Cooper Institute; First Inaugural Address; Meditation on the Divine Will LONG, The Power within Us LUCIAN, The Way to Write History MILL, J. S., “Childhood and Youth” TACITUS, The Life of Gnaeus Julius Agricola THOREAU, A Plea for Captain John Brown Universal Declaration of Human Rights WASHINGTON, Circular Letter to the Governors of All the States on Disbanding the Army; Farewell Address WOOLF, The Art of Biography XENOPHON, “The Character of Socrates” VOLUME 7 BACON, Of Youth and Age; Of Parents and Children; Of Marriage and Single Life; Of Great Place; Of Seditions and Troubles; Of Custom and Education; Of Followers and Friends; Of Usury; Of Riches BURKE, Letter to the Sheriffs of Bristol CLAUSEWITZ, What Is War? FARADAY, Observations on Mental Education JAMES, W., The Energies of Men; Great Men and Their Environment PLUTARCH, Of Bashfulness SCHOPENHAUER, On Education SWIFT, Resolutions When I Come to Be Old; An Essay on Modern Education; A Meditation Upon a Broomstick; A Modest Proposal VOLUME 8 BACON, The Sphinx CARSON, The Sunless Sea DARWIN, Autobiography EDDINGTON, The Running-down of the Universe EISELEY, “On Time” FABRE, A Laboratory of the Open Fields FARADAY, The Chemical History of a Candle GALILEO, The Starry Messenger HUXLEY, On a Piece of Chalk JEANS, Beginnings and Endings

Gateway to the Great Books314 VOLUME 9 FORSYTH, Mathematics, in Life and Thought POINCARÉ, Mathematical Creation WHITEHEAD, “On Mathematical Method” VOLUME 10 BACON, Of Truth; Of Death; Of Adversity; Of Love; Of Friendship; Of Anger CICERO, On Friendship; On Old Age EMERSON, Self-Reliance EPICTETUS, The Enchiridion HAZLITT, On the Feeling of Immortality in Youth PATER, “The Art of Life” PART III Suggested Readings for the 11th and 12th Grades VOLUME 3 BUNIN, The Gentleman from San Francisco DINESEN, Sorrow-Acre FITZGERALD, The Diamond as Big as the Ritz JAMES, H., The Pupil MANN, Mario and the Magician SINGER, The Spinoza of Market Street TOLSTOY, The Death of Ivan Ilyitch TURGENEV, First Love VOLUME 5 ELIOT, T. S., Tradition and the Individual Talent HAZLITT, On Swift HUME, Of the Standard of Taste SAINTE-BEUVE, Montaigne SCHOPENHAUER, On Style SHELLEY, A Defence of Poetry VOLUME 6 BURY, Herodotus GUIZOT, “Civilization” THOREAU, Civil Disobedience TOCQUEVILLE, “Observations on American Life and Government” VOLUME 7 CALHOUN, “The Concurrent Majority” HUME, Of Refinement in the Arts; Of Money; Of the Balance of Trade; Of Taxes JAMES, W., On a Certain Blindness in Human Beings MACAULAY, Machiavelli

315PLAN OF G RADE D READI NG MALTHUS, “The Principle of Population” ROUSSEAU, A Lasting Peace through the Federation of Europe RUSKIN, An Idealist’s Arraignment of the Age VOLTAIRE, “English Men and Ideas” VOLUME 8 CAMPANELLA, “Arguments for and against Galileo” EINSTEIN AND INFELD, “The Rise and Decline of Classical Physics” GALTON, “The Classification of Human Ability” HELMHOLTZ, On the Conservation of Force HUXLEY, On the Relations of Man to the Lower Animals LYELL, “Geological Evolution” WÖHLER, On the Artificial Production of Urea VOLUME 9 CAMPBELL, Measurement; Numerical Laws and the Use of Mathematics in Science EULER, The Seven Bridges of Königsberg LAPLACE, “Probability” POINCARÉ, Chance RUSSELL, The Study of Mathematics VOLUME 10 BROWNE, “Immortality” CLIFFORD, The Ethics of Belief DEWEY, “The Process of Thought” EMERSON, Nature; Montaigne; or, the Skeptic EPICURUS, Letter to Menoeceus JAMES, W., The Will to Believe; The Sentiment of Rationality MILL, J. S., Nature PLUTARCH, Contentment SANTAYANA, Lucretius; Goethe’s Faust VOLTAIRE, “The Philosophy of Common Sense” PART IV Suggested Readings for College Freshmen and Sophomores VOLUME 5 ELIOT, T. S., Dante SCHILLER, On Simple and Sentimental Poetry SCHOPENHAUER, On the Comparative Place of Interest and Beauty in Works of Art VOLUME 7 DANTE, “On World Government” KANT, Perpetual Peace

Gateway to the Great Books316 VOLUME 8 BERNARD, Experimental Considerations Common to Living Things and Inorganic Bodies MENDELEEV, “The Genesis of a Law of Nature” PAVLOV, Scientific Study of the So-Called Psychical Processes in the Higher Animals VOLUME 9 CLIFFORD, The Postulates of the Science of Space PEIRCE, The Red and the Black POINCARÉ, Space RUSSELL, Definition of Number; Mathematics and the Metaphysicians VOLUME 10 ADAMS, Saint Thomas Aquinas EPICURUS, Letter to Herodotus

GATEWAY TO THE GREAT BOOKS ROBERT M. HUTCHINS, MORTIMER J. ADLER Editors in Chief CLIFTON FADIMAN Associate Editor JACOB E. SAFRA Chairman, Board of Directors JORG E AG U I LAR- CAUZ, President ENCYCLOPÆDIA BRITAN NICA, INC. C H I C A G O L O N D O N N E W D E L H I PA R I S S E O U L S Y D N E Y TA I P E I T O K Y O 2 I MAG I NATIVE LITE RATU RE

© 1990, 1963 Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc. All rights reserved International Standard Book Number: 978-1-59339-221-5 No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The following works in this volume are reprinted under the arrangements listed below: “Mowgli’s Brothers” from The Jungle Book by Rudyard Kipling. Reprinted by permission of Mrs. Bambridge, Messrs. Macmillan and the Macmillan Co. of Canada Ltd. “Two Friends” by Guy de Maupassant, translated by Gerard Hopkins, is reproduced by kind permission of the Folio Society. “The Killers” (Copyright 1927 Charles Scribner’s Sons; renewal copyright © 1955) is reprinted with the permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons and Jonathan Cape Limited from Men without Women by Ernest Hemingway. “The Two Drovers” from Chronicles of the Canongate in Short Stories by Walter Scott, Oxford University Press, London. Reprinted by permission. Joseph Conrad’s story “Youth” included by permission of the Trustees of the Joseph Conrad Estate, Doubleday & Co., Inc., New York, and J. M. Dent & Sons Ltd., London. “Micromégas” by Voltaire, translated by H. I. Woolf, Routledge & Kegan Paul Ltd., London. Reprinted by permission. “The Overcoat” from The Diary of a Madman and Other Stories by Nikolai Gogol, translated by Andrew R. MacAndrew, copyright © 1960 by Andrew R. MacAndrew, published by agreement with The New American Library of World Literature, Inc., New York. “I’m a Fool” Copyright © 1922 by Sherwood Anderson. Copyright renewed 1949 by Eleanor Anderson. Reprinted by permission of Harold Ober Associates Incorporated. Portrait illustrations are by Fred Steffen

iii Contents of Volume 2 DANIEL DEFOE 1 Robinson Crusoe 5 RUDYARD KIPLING 122 Mowgli’s Brothers 126 VICTOR HUGO 142 The Battle with the Cannon from Ninety-three 146 GUY DE MAUPASSANT 155 Two Friends 159 ERNEST HEMINGWAY 165 The Killers 169 SIR WALTER SCOTT 178 The Two Drovers 182 JOSEPH CONRAD 206 Youth 210

Contents of Volume 2iv VOLTAIRE 237 Micromégas 241 OSCAR WILDE 257 The Happy Prince 261 EDGAR ALLAN POE 269 The Tell-Tale Heart 273 The Masque of the Red Death 278 ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON 284 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde 288 MARK TWAIN 342 The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg 346 CHARLES DICKENS 387 A Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick from The Pickwick Papers 391 NIKOLAI GOGOL 449 The Overcoat 452 SAM UEL BUTLE R 479 Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians from Erewhon 483

Contents of Volume 2 v SHERWOOD ANDERSON 507 I’m a Fool 511 ANONYMOUS 521 Aucassin and Nicolette 523

1 Daniel Defoe c. 1660–1731 Daniel Defoe (the name had many forms) was born in London,probably in the late summer of 1660. He was schooled for the Presbyterian ministry at Morton’s academy but did not take orders. By 1683 he was established as a London merchant in hosiery, wines, and tobacco. He married Mary Tuffley in 1684 and the next year rode as a trouper in Monmouth’s Rebellion. During the 1680’s, business travels took him all over Great Britain and the Continent. In 1692 he went bankrupt with debts amounting to £17,000. His creditors were repaid almost to the last penny. He became King William III’s agent and confidential adviser. His verse satire in defense of William, The True-Born Englishman, had a large sale. Defoe established a prosperous brickworks. In 1702, under Queen Anne, he published a satire against High Church domination, The Shortest Way with the Dissenters. In the furor growing out of this he was exposed in the pillory and imprisoned. His business failed. He was released late in 1703, evidently with the understanding that he would act as confidential agent, reporter, and pamphleteer for the government. He continued to do this work under various ministries. From 1704 to 1713, he published and wrote much of the Review, the most famous of twenty-six journals he had a hand in. In all, Defoe was arrested six or seven times, apparently for the most part on charges sponsored by his political enemies. His career as a novelist began at fifty-nine with the first volume of Robinson Crusoe (see below). The second volume and a sequel appeared within a twelvemonth. In 1720 he published The Life and Adventures of Mr. Duncan Campbell, Memoirs of a Cavalier, and The Life of Captain Singleton. In 1722 came Moll Flanders, A Journal of the Plague Year, and The History of Colonel Jacque.

Daniel Defoe2 These were followed by Roxana, Jonathan Wild and other stories of criminals, and a three-volume guide to Great Britain. Defoe has been credited with more than 500 titles. He was the first major novelist in English and he may be said to have established the main tradition in British journalism. He died in Ropemaker’s Alley, London, on April 24, 1731. Robinson Crusoe was first published on April 25, 1719. It delighted everybody—other writers, from Rousseau to Swift, and people who seldom read a book. It has never stopped selling. When the twentieth century began, more than 700 editions, translations, and imitations had been printed. Scores of others have been added since. Richard Brinsley Sheridan made a pantomime out of the story and David Garrick played in it. Jacques Offenbach put the Great Castaway into an opera. His adventures were turned into a motion picture by the distinguished Spanish director, Luis Bunuel. In “Images for Crusoe,” the French poet St.-John Perse gave us a new vision of the hero’s return. It is a great story, loved in every nation. Even the Eskimos have a translation of it. It derives in part—but only in small part—from the true history of Alexander Selkirk, who seems to have been a self-made exile on one of the Juan Fernández Islands off the coast of Chile in the early 1700’s. But how can we account for the great sweep of Robinson Crusoe’s popularity? For one thing, a career of hard and rapid writing had taught Defoe to use words with the practical exactness of a shipmaster filling in his log, but with a flexibility and ease few shipmasters could equal. Everyone can understand Crusoe. And who has not asked himself what he would do if he were in Crusoe’s place, and then, by the magic of Defoe’s words, put himself there? It is the story of a man alone, but there is no great loneliness in it. After his first panic, Crusoe remembers the cure for loneliness: work, Notes from the artist: “Defoe and two of his most notable characters, Robinson Crusoe and Moll Flanders, together with a sketch of Defoe after he was pilloried for writing The Shortest Way with the Dissenters. The quotation is from his satire The True-Born Englishman.”

Daniel Defoe4 projects, and more work. One of the most famous incidents of the story—the finding of a footprint in the sand—is precisely the point at which the man alone encounters human society again. And how does he react? He is terrified. He assumes, as he has assumed from the first, that any stranger will be hostile. Crusoe is the New Man, the new middle-class man who deals in things. In England, he has been on the rise since the late Middle Ages. Now he stands clear. Two points distinguish him: he is a man of business, and a nonconformist in religion. He has been persecuted. He is distrustful. Defoe puts him where he put Jonathan Wild, Moll Flanders, and a good many of his other heroes and heroines—a little outside society, or against it. Moreover, we see that Crusoe’s physical adventures are matched at nearly every point by religious ones. In general, except for what seems an excessive sense of guilt, we feel that his respect for moral fact is as hard-headed as his knack for the physical. We note that, in contrast to such books as Typee or Green Mansions, there is no Eve in Crusoe’s Eden. Defoe leaves out a large part of the human race: women. His Eden has no future. Robinson Crusoe is not—or is only at first—a story of survival. He is cast away, not on a true desert island, but on one richly hospitable to human living. One by one, he moves through the three stages that may be said to represent man’s earliest development: the gathering of wild foods, farming, and the keeping of herds. Crusoe is building himself a one-man civilization. Humorous or not, he has his castle and his country seat. He is trying to attain something like the standard of living of a comfortable middle-class Englishman. Moreover, he has tools and supplies saved out of the wreck. What happens to Crusoe has happened to many a civilization in human history: a few things salvaged, and a beginning again.

5 Robinson Crusoe I GO TO SEA was born in the year 1632, in the city of York, of a good family, though not of that country, my father being a foreigner of Bremen who settled first at Hull. He got a good estate by merchandise and, leaving off his trade, lived afterward at York, from whence he had married my mother, whose relations were named Robinson, a very good family in that country, and from whom I was called Robinson Kreutznaer; but by the usual corruption of words in England we are now called, nay, we call ourselves, and write our name “Crusoe,” and so my companions always called me. I had two elder brothers, one of which was lieutenant-colonel to an English regiment of foot in Flanders, formerly commanded by the famous Colonel Lockhart, and was killed at the battle near Dunkirk against the Spaniards; what became of my second brother I never knew, any more than my father or mother did know what was become of me. Being the third son of the family, and not bred to any trade, my head began to be filled very early with rambling thoughts. My father, who was very ancient, had given me a competent share of learning, as far as house education and a country free school generally goes, and designed me for the law; but I would be satisfied with nothing but going to sea; and my inclination to this led me so strongly against the will, nay the commands, of my father, and against all the entreaties and persuasions of my mother and other friends that there seemed to be something fatal in that propension of nature tending directly to the life of misery which was to befall me. My father, a wise and grave man, gave me serious and excellent counsel against what he foresaw was my design. He called me one morning into his chamber, where he was confined by the gout, and expostulated very

Daniel Defoe6 warmly with me upon this subject. He asked me what reasons more than a mere wandering inclination I had for leaving my father’s house and my native country, where I might be well introduced, and had a prospect of raising my fortune by application and industry, with a life of ease and pleasure. He told me it was for men of desperate fortunes on one hand, or of aspiring, superior fortunes on the other, who went abroad upon adventures, to rise by enterprise, and make themselves famous in undertakings of a nature out of the common road; that these things were all either too far above me, or too far below me; that mine was the middle state, or what might be called the upper station of low life, which he had found by long experience was the best state in the world, the most suited to human happiness, not exposed to the miseries and hardships, the labour and sufferings of the mechanic part of mankind, and not embarrassed with the pride, luxury, ambition, and envy of the upper part of mankind. He told me I might judge of the happiness of this state by this one thing, viz., that this was the state of life which all other people envied; that kings have frequently lamented the miserable consequences of being born to great things, and wished they had been placed in the middle of the two extremes, between the mean and the great; that the wise man gave his testimony to this as the just standard of true felicity, when he prayed to have neither poverty nor riches. He bade me observe it, and I should always find that the calamities of life were shared among the upper and lower part of mankind; but that the middle station had the fewest disasters, and was not exposed to so many vicissitudes as the higher or lower part of mankind; nay, they were not subjected to so many distempers and uneasinesses either of body or mind, as those were who, by vicious living, luxury, and extravagances on one hand, or by hard labour, want of necessaries, and mean or insufficient diet on the other hand, bring distempers upon themselves by the natural consequences of their way of living; that the middle station of life was calculated for all kind of virtues, and all kind of enjoyments; that peace and plenty were the handmaids of a middle fortune; that temperance, moderation, quietness, health, society, all agreeable diversions, and all desirable pleasures, were the blessings attending the middle station of life; that this way men went silently and smoothly through the world, and comfortably out of it, not embarrassed with the labours of the hands or of the head, not sold to the life of slavery for daily bread, or harassed with perplexed circumstances, which rob the soul of peace and the body of rest; not enraged with the passion of envy, or secret burning lust of ambition for great things; but in easy circumstances sliding gently through

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 7 the world, and sensibly tasting the sweets of living, without the bitter, feeling that they are happy, and learning by every day’s experience to know it more sensibly. After this, he pressed me earnestly, and in the most affectionate manner, not to play the young man, nor to precipitate myself into miseries which nature and the station of life I was born in seemed to have provided against; that I was under no necessity of seeking my bread; that he would do well for me, and endeavour to enter me fairly into the station of life which he had been just recommending to me; and that if I was not very easy and happy in the world, it must be my mere fate or fault that must hinder it, and that he should have nothing to answer for, having thus discharged his duty in warning me against measures which he knew would be to my hurt. In a word, that as he would do very kind things for me if I would stay and settle at home, as he directed, so he would not have so much hand in my misfortunes as to give me any encouragement to go away. And to close all, he told me, I had my elder brother for an example, to whom he had used the same earnest persuasions to keep him from going into the Low Country wars, but could not prevail, his young desires prompting him to run into the army, where he was killed; and though he said he would not cease to pray for me, yet he would venture to say to me that if I did take this foolish step, God would not bless me, and I would have leisure hereafter to reflect upon having neglected his counsel, when there might be none to assist in my recovery. I observed in this last part of his discourse, which was truly prophetic, though I suppose my father did not know it to be so himself; I say, I observed the tears run down his face very plentifully, especially when he spoke of my brother who was killed; and that when he spoke of my having leisure to repent, and none to assist me, he was so moved that he broke off the discourse, and told me his heart was so full he could say no more to me. I was sincerely affected with this discourse, as indeed who could be otherwise? and I resolved not to think of going abroad any more, but to settle at home according to my father’s desire. But alas! a few days wore it all off; and in short, to prevent any of my father’s further importunities, in a few weeks after, I resolved to run quite away from him. However, I did not act so hastily neither as my first heat of resolution prompted, but I took my mother, at a time when I thought her a little pleasanter than ordinary, and told her that my thoughts were so entirely bent upon seeing the world that I should never settle to anything with resolution enough to go through with it, and my father had better give me his consent than

Daniel Defoe8 force me to go without it; that I was now eighteen years old, which was too late to go apprentice to a trade, or clerk to an attorney; that I was sure, if I did, I should never serve out my time, and I should certainly run away from my master before my time was out, and go to sea; and if she would speak to my father to let me go one voyage abroad, if I came home again and did not like it, I would go no more, and I would promise by a double diligence to recover that time I had lost. This put my mother into a great passion. She told me she knew it would be to no purpose to speak to my father upon any such subject; that he knew too well what was my interest, to give his consent to anything so much for my hurt, and that she wondered how I could think of any such thing, after such a discourse as I had had with my father, and such kind and tender expressions as she knew my father had used to me; and that, in short, if I would ruin myself, there was no help for me; but I might depend I should never have their consent to it; that for her part she would not have so much hand in my destruction; and I should never have it to say, that my mother was willing when my father was not. Though my mother refused to move it to my father, yet, as I have heard afterwards, she reported all the discourse to him, and that my father, after showing a great concern at it, said to her with a sigh, “That boy might be happy if he would stay at home, but if he goes abroad, he will be the most miserable wretch that was ever born; I can give no consent to it.” It was not till almost a year after this that I broke loose, though in the meantime I continued obstinately deaf to all proposals of settling to business, and frequently expostulating with my father and mother about their being so positively determined against what they knew my inclinations prompted me to. But being one day at Hull, where I went casually, and without any purpose of making an elopment that time; but I say, being there, and one of my companions being going by sea to London in his father’s ship, and prompting me to go with them, with the common allurement of seafaring men, viz., that it should cost me nothing for my passage, I consulted neither father or mother any more, nor so much as sent them word of it; but leaving them to hear of it as they might, without asking God’s blessing, or my father’s, without any consideration of circumstances or consequences, and in an ill hour, God knows, on the first of September, 1651, I went on board a ship bound for London. Never any young adventurer’s misfortunes, I believe, began sooner or continued longer than mine. The ship was no sooner gotten out of the Humber but the wind began to blow, and the sea to rise in a most frightful manner;

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 9 and as I had never been at sea before, I was most inexpressibly sick in body and terrified in mind. I began now seriously to reflect upon what I had done, and how justly I was overtaken by the judgment of Heaven for my wicked leaving my father’s house and abandoning my duty; all the good counsel of my parents, my father’s tears, and my mother’s entreaties came now fresh into my mind, and my conscience, which was not yet come to the pitch of hardness to which it has been since, reproached me with the contempt of advice and the breach of my duty to God and my father. All this while the storm increased, and the sea, which I had never been upon before, went very high, though nothing like what I have seen many times since; no, nor like what I saw a few days after But it was enough to affect me then, who was but a young sailor and had never known anything of the matter. I expected every wave would have swallowed us up, and that every time the ship fell down, as I thought, in the trough or hollow of the sea, we should never rise more; and in this agony of mind I made many vows and resolutions, that if it would please God here to spare my life in this one voyage, if ever I got once my foot upon dry land again, I would go directly home to my father, and never set it into a ship again while I lived; that I would take his advice, and never run myself into such miseries as these any more. Now I saw plainly the goodness of his observations about the middle station of life, how easy, how comfortably he had lived all his days, and never had been exposed to tempests at sea or troubles on shore; and I resolved that I would, like a true repenting prodigal, go home to my father. These wise and sober thoughts continued all the while the storm continued, and indeed some time after; but the next day the wind was abated and the sea calmer, and I began to be a little inured to it. However, I was very grave for all that day, being also a little sea-sick still; but towards night the weather cleared up, the wind was quite over, and a charming fine evening followed; the sun went down perfectly clear, and rose so the next morning; and having little or no wind, and a smooth sea, the sun shining upon it, the sight was, as I thought, the most delightful that ever I saw. I had slept well in the night, and was now no more sea-sick, but very cheerful, looking with wonder upon the sea that was so rough and terrible the day before, and could be so calm and so pleasant in so little time after. And now lest my good resolutions should continue, my companion, who had indeed enticed me away, comes to me. “Well, Bob,” says he, clapping me upon the shoulder, “how do you do after it? I warrant you were

Daniel Defoe10 frighted, wa’n’t you, last night, when it blew but a capful of wind?” “A capful, d’you call it?” said I, “’twas a terrible storm.” “A storm, you fool, you,” replies he; “do you call that a storm? why, it was nothing at all; give us but a good ship and sea room, and we think nothing of such a squall of wind as that; but you’re but a fresh-water sailor, Bob; come, let us make a bowl of punch, and we’ll forget all that; d’ye see what charming weather ’tis now?” To make short this sad part of my story, we went the old way of all sailors; the punch was made, and I was made drunk with it, and in that one night’s wickedness I drowned all my repentance, all my reflections upon my past conduct, and all my resolutions for the future. In a word, as the sea was returned to its smoothness of surface and settled calmness by the abatement of that storm, so the hurry of my thoughts being over, my fears and apprehensions of being swallowed up by the sea being forgotten, and the current of my former desires returned, I entirely forgot the vows and promises that I made in my distress. I found indeed some intervals of reflection, and the serious thoughts did, as it were, endeavour to return again sometimes; but I shook them off, and roused myself from them as it were from a distemper, and applying myself to drinking and company, soon mastered the return of those fits (for so I called them), and I had in five or six days got as complete a victory over conscience as any young fellow that resolved not to be troubled with it could desire. But I was to have another trial for it still; and Providence, as in such cases generally it does, resolved to leave me entirely without excuse. For if I would not take this for a deliverance, the next was to be such a one as the worst and most hardened wretch among us would confess both the danger and the mercy. The sixth day of our being at sea we came into Yarmouth Roads; the wind having been contrary, and the weather calm, we had made but little way since the storm. Here we were obliged to come to anchor, and here we lay, the wind continuing contrary, viz., at southwest, for seven or eight days, during which time a great many ships from Newcastle came into the same roads, as the common harbour where the ships might wait for a wind for the river. We had not, however, rid here so long, but should have tided it up the river, but that the wind blew too fresh; and after we had lain four or five days, blew very hard. However, the roads being reckoned as good as a harbour, the anchorage good, and our ground tackle very strong, our men were unconcerned, and not in the least apprehensive of danger, but spent the time in rest and mirth, after the manner of the sea; but the

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 11 eighth day in the morning, the wind increased, and we had all hands at work to strike our topmasts and make everything snug and close, that the ship might ride as easy as possible. By noon the sea went very high indeed, and our ship rid forecastle in, shipped several seas, and we thought once or twice our anchor had come home; upon which our master ordered out the sheet anchor; so that we rode with two anchors ahead, and the cables veered out to the bitter end. By this time it blew a terrible storm indeed, and now I began to see terror and amazement in the faces even of the seamen themselves. The master, though vigilant in the business of preserving the ship, yet as he went in and out of his cabin by me, I could hear him softly to himself say several times, “Lord, be merciful to us, we shall be all lost, we shall be all undone”; and the like. During these first hurries, I was stupid, lying still in my cabin, which was in the steerage, and cannot describe my temper. I could ill reassume the first penitence which I had so apparently trampled upon, and hardened myself against. I thought the bitterness of death had been past, and that this would be nothing too, like the first. But when the master himself came by me, as I said just now, and said we should be all lost, I was dreadfully frighted. I got up out of my cabin and looked out; but such a dismal sight I never saw. The sea went mountains high, and broke upon us every three or four minutes. When I could look about, I could see nothing but distress round us: Two ships that rid near us, we found, had cut their masts by the board, being deep loaden; and our men cried out that a ship which rid about a mile ahead of us was foundered. Two more ships, being driven from their anchors, were run out of the roads to sea at all adventures, and that with not a mast standing. The light ships fared the best, as not so much labouring in the sea; but two or three of them drove and came close by us, running away with only their spritsail out before the wind. Towards evening the mate and boatswain begged the master of our ship to let them cut away the foremast which he was very unwilling to do. But the boatswain protesting to him that if he did not the ship would founder, he consented; and when they had cut away the foremast, the mainmast stood so loose and shook the ship so much, they were obliged to cut her away also, and make a clear deck. Anyone may judge what a condition I must be in at all this, who was but a young sailor, and who had been in such a fright before at but a little. But if I can express at this distance the thoughts I had about me at that time, I was in tenfold more horror of mind upon account of my

Daniel Defoe12 former convictions, and the having returned from them to the resolutions I had wickedly taken at first, than I was at death itself; and these, added to the terror of the storm, put me in such a condition that I can by no words describe it. But the worst was not come yet; the storm continued with such fury that the seamen themselves acknowledged they had never known a worse. We had a good ship, but she was deep loaden, and wallowed in the sea, that the seamen every now and then cried out she would founder. It was my advantage in one respect that I did not know what they meant by “founder” till I inquired. However, the storm was so violent that I saw what is not often seen, the master, the boatswain, and some others more sensible than the rest, at their prayers and expecting every moment when the ship would go to the bottom. In the middle of the night, and under all the rest of our distresses, one of the men that had been down on purpose to see cried out we had sprung a leak; another said there was four foot water in the hold. Then all hands were called to the pump. At that very word my heart, as I thought, died within me, and I fell backwards upon the side of my bed where I sat, into the cabin. However, the men roused me, and told me that I, that was able to do nothing before, was as well able to pump as another; at which I stirred up and went to the pump and worked very heartily. While this was doing, the master, seeing some light colliers, who, not able to ride out the storm, were obliged to slip and run away to sea, and would come near us, ordered to fire a gun as a signal of distress. I, who knew nothing what that meant, was so surprised, that I thought the ship had broke, or some dreadful thing happened. In a word, I was so surprised that I fell down in a swoon. As this was a time when everybody had his own life to think of, nobody minded me, or what was become of me; but another man stepped up to the pump, and thrusting me aside with his foot, let me lie, thinking I had been dead; and it was a great while before I came to myself. We worked on, but the water increasing in the hold, it was apparent that the ship would founder, and though the storm began to abate a little, yet as it was not possible she could swim till we might run into a port, so the master continued firing guns for help; and a light ship who had rid it out just ahead of us ventured a boat out to help us. It was with the utmost hazard the boat came near us, but it was impossible for us to get on board, or for the boat to lie near the ship side, till at last the men rowing very heartily and venturing their lives to save ours, our men cast them a rope over the stern with a buoy to it and then veered it out a great length, which they after great labour and hazard took hold of, and we hauled

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 13 them close under our stern and got all into their boat. It was to no purpose for them or us after we were in the boat to think of reaching to their own ship, so all agreed to let her drive and only to pull her in towards shore as much as we could, and our master promised them that if the boat was staved upon shore, he would make it good to their master; so, partly rowing and partly driving, our boat went away to the northward, sloping towards the shore almost as far as Winterton Ness. We were not much more than a quarter of an hour out of our ship but we saw her sink, and then I understood for the first time what was meant by a ship foundering in the sea; I must acknowledge I had hardly eyes to look up when the seamen told me she was sinking; for from that moment they rather put me into the boat than that I might be said to go in, my heart was as it were dead within me, partly with fright, partly with horror of mind and the thoughts of what was yet before me. While we were in this condition, the men yet labouring at the oar to bring the boat near the shore, we could see (when, our boat mounting the waves, we were able to see the shore) a great many people running along the strand to assist us when we should come near; but we made but slow way towards the shore, nor were we able to reach the shore, till being past the lighthouse at Winterton, the shore falls off to the westward towards Cromer, and so the land broke off a little the violence of the wind. Here we got in and, though not without much difficulty, got all safe on shore and walked afterwards on foot to Yarmouth, where, as unfortunate men, we were used with great humanity, as well by the magistrates of the town, who assigned us good quarters, as by particular merchants and owners of ships, and had money given us sufficient to carry us either to London or back to Hull, as we thought fit. Had I now had the sense to have gone back to Hull, and have gone home, I had been happy, and my father, an emblem of our blessed Saviour’s parable, had even killed the fatted calf for me; for hearing the ship I went away in was cast away in Yarmouth Roads, it was a great while before he had any assurance that I was not drowned. But my ill fate pushed me on now with an obstinacy that nothing could resist; and though I had several times loud calls from my reason and my more composed judgment to go home, yet I had no power to do it. I know not what to call this, nor will I urge that it is a secret overruling decree that hurries us on to be the instruments of our own destruction, even though it be before us, and that we push upon it with our eyes open. Certainly nothing but some such decreed unavoidable misery attending, and which it was impossible for me to escape, could have pushed me forward

Daniel Defoe14 against the calm reasonings and persuasions of my most retired thoughts and against two such visible instructions as I had met with in my first attempt. My comrade, who had helped to harden me before and who was the master’s son, was now less forward than I; the first time he spoke to me after we were at Yarmouth, which was not till two or three days, for we were separated in the town to several quarters; I say, the first time he saw me, it appeared his tone was altered, and looking very melancholy and shaking his head, asking me how I did, and telling his father who I was, and how I had come this voyage only for a trial in order to go farther abroad; his father turning to me with a very grave and concerned tone, “Young man,” says he, “you ought never to go to sea any more; you ought to take this for a plain and visible token that you are not to be a seafaring man.” “Why, sir,” said I, “will you go to sea no more?” “That is another case,” said he; “it is my calling and therefore my duty; but as you made this voyage for a trial, you see what a taste Heaven has given you of what you are to expect if you persist; perhaps this is all befallen us on your account, like Jonah in the ship of Tarshish. Pray,” continues he, “what are you? and on what account did you go to sea?” Upon that I told him some of my story; at the end of which he burst out with a strange kind of passion, “What had I done,” says he, “that such an unhappy wretch should come into my ship? I would not set my foot in the same ship with thee again for a thousand pounds.” This indeed was, as I said, an excursion of his spirits, which were yet agitated by the sense of his loss, and was farther than he could have authority to go. However, he afterwards talked very gravely to me, exhorted me to go back to my father and not tempt Providence to my ruin; told me I might see a visible hand of Heaven against me; “And, young man,” said he, “depend upon it, if you do not go back, wherever you go, you will meet with nothing but disasters and disappointments, till your father’s words are fulfilled upon you.” [Crusoe, despite this good advice, determines to go to sea again. After various adventures, he becomes a Brazilian planter. He is then offered an opportunity to go to sea once more.] I GO ON BOARD I N AN EVIL HOUR But I that was born to be my own destroyer could no more resist the offer than I could restrain my first rambling designs, when my father’s good counsel was lost upon me. In a word, I told them I would go with all my heart, if they would undertake to look after my plantation in my

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 15 absence and would dispose of it to such as I should direct, if I miscarried. This they all engaged to do, and entered into writings, or covenants, to do so; and I made a formal will, disposing of my plantation and effects, in case of my death, making the captain of the ship that had saved my life, as before, my universal heir, but obliging him to dispose of my effects as I had directed in my will, one half of the produce being to himself and the other to be shipped to England. In short, I took all possible caution to preserve my effects and to keep up my plantation; had I used half as much prudence to have looked into my own interest and have made a judgment of what I ought to have done and not to have done, I had certainly never gone away from so prosperous an undertaking, leaving all the probable views of a thriving circumstance and gone upon a voyage to sea, attended with all its common hazards; to say nothing of the reasons I had to expect particular misfortunes to myself. But I was hurried on and obeyed blindly the dictates of my fancy rather than my reason; and accordingly, the ship being fitted out and the cargo furnished, and all things done as by agreement by my partners in the voyage, I went on board in an evil hour, the 1st of September, 1659, being the same day eight years that I went from my father and mother at Hull, in order to act the rebel to their authority and the fool to my own interest. Our ship was about 120 tons burden, carried six guns and fourteen men, besides the master, his boy, and myself; we had on board no large cargo of goods, except of such toys as were fit for our trade with the Negroes, such as beads, bits of glass, shells, and odd trifles, especially little looking-glasses, knives, scissors, hatchets, and the like. The same day I went on board we set sail, standing away to the northward upon our own coast, with design to stretch over for the African coast, when they came about ten or twelve degrees of northern latitude, which it seems was the manner of their course in those days. We had very good weather, only excessive hot, all the way upon our own coast till we came the height of Cape St. Augustino, from whence keeping farther off at sea, we lost sight of land and steered as if we were bound for the Isle Fernando de Noronha, holding our course northeast by north and leaving those isles on the east. In this course we passed the line in about twelve days’ time, and were by our last observation in seven degrees twenty-two minutes northern latitude, when a violent tornado, or hurricane, took us quite out of our knowledge; it began from the southeast, came about to the northwest, and then settled into the northeast, from whence it blew

Daniel Defoe16 in such a terrible manner that for twelve days together we could do nothing but drive and, scudding away before it, let it carry us whither ever fate and the fury of the winds directed; and during these twelve days, I need not say that I expected every day to be swallowed up, nor indeed did any in the ship expect to save their lives. In this distress we had, besides the terror of the storm, one of our men died of the calenture, and one man and the boy washed overboard. About the twelfth day, the weather abating a little, the master made an observation as well as he could, and found that he was in about eleven degrees north latitude, but that he was twenty-two degrees of longitude difference west from Cape St. Augustino; so that he found he was gotten upon the coast of Guiana, or the north part of Brazil, beyond the river Amazones, towards that of the river Orinoco, commonly called the Great River, and began to consult with me what course he should take, for the ship was leaky and very much disabled and he was going directly back to the coast of Brazil. I was positively against that, and looking over the charts of the seacoast of America with him, we concluded there was no inhabited country for us to have recourse to till we came within the circle of the Caribbee Islands and therefore resolved to stand away for Barbados, which by keeping off at sea, to avoid the indraught of the Bay or Gulf of Mexico, we might easily perform, as we hoped, in about fifteen days’ sail; whereas we could not possibly make our voyage to the coast of Africa without some assistance both to our ship and to ourselves. With this design we changed our course and steered away northwest by west in order to reach some of our English islands, where I hoped for relief; but our voyage was otherwise determined, for being in the latitude of twelve degrees eighteen minutes, a second storm came upon us, which carried us away with the same impetuosity westward and drove us so out of the very way of all human commerce, that had all our lives been saved as to the sea, we were rather in danger of being devoured by savages than ever returning to our own country. In this distress, the wind still blowing very hard, one of our men early in the morning cried out, “Land!”; and we had no sooner run out of the cabin to look out in hopes of seeing whereabouts in the world we were but the ship struck upon a sand, and in a moment, her motion being so stopped, the sea broke over her in such a manner that we expected we should all have perished immediately; and we were immediately driven into our close quarters to shelter us from the very foam and spray of the sea.

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 17 It is not easy for anyone who has not been in the like condition to describe or conceive the consternation of men in such circumstances; we knew nothing where we were or upon what land it was we were driven, whether an island or the main, whether inhabited or not inhabited; and as the rage of the wind was still great though rather less than at first, we could not so much as hope to have the ship hold many minutes without breaking in pieces unless the winds by a kind of miracle should turn immediately about. In a word, we sat looking one upon another and expecting death every moment, and every man acting accordingly, as preparing for another world, for there was little or nothing more for us to do in this; that which was our present comfort, and all the comfort we had, was that, contrary to our expectation, the ship did not break yet and that the master said the wind began to abate. Now though we thought that the wind did a little abate, yet the ship having thus struck upon the sand, and sticking too fast for us to expect her getting off, we were in a dreadful condition indeed, and had nothing to do but to think of saving our lives as well as we could; we had a boat at our stern just before the storm, but she was first staved by dashing against the ship’s rudder, and in the next place she broke away and either sank or was driven off to sea, so there was no hope from her; we had another boat on board, but how to get her off into the sea was a doubtful thing; however, there was no room to debate, for we fancied the ship would break in pieces every minute, and some told us she was actually broken already. In this distress the mate of our vessel lays hold of the boat, and with the help of the rest of the men, they got her slung over the ship’s side and, getting all into her, let go and committed ourselves, being eleven in number, to God’s mercy and the wild sea; for though the storm was abated considerably, yet the sea went dreadful high upon the shore, and might well be called den wild zee, as the Dutch call the sea in a storm. And now our case was very dismal indeed; for we all saw plainly that the sea went so high that the boat could not live and that we should be inevitably drowned. As to making sail, we had none; nor, if we had, could we have done anything with it; so we worked at the oar towards the land, though with heavy hearts, like men going to execution; for we all knew that when the boat came nearer the shore, she would be dashed in a thousand pieces by the breach of the sea. However, we committed our souls to God in the most earnest manner, and the wind driving us towards the shore, we hastened our destruction with our own hands, pulling as well as we could towards land.

Daniel Defoe18 What the shore was, whether rock or sand, whether steep or shoal, we knew not; the only hope that could rationally give us the least shadow of expectation was if we might happen into some bay or gulf, or the mouth of some river, where by great chance we might have run our boat in, or got under the lee of the land, and perhaps made smooth water. But there was nothing of this appeared; but as we made nearer and nearer the shore, the land looked more frightful than the sea. After we had rowed, or rather driven, about a league and a half, as we reckoned it, a raging wave, mountainlike, came rolling astern of us and plainly bade us expect the coup de grâce. In a word, it took us with such a fury that it overset the boat at once; and separating us as well from the boat as from one another, gave us not time hardly to say, “O God!” for we were all swallowed up in a moment. Nothing can describe the confusion of thought which I felt when I sunk into the water; for though I swam very well, yet I could not deliver myself from the waves so as to draw breath, till that wave having driven me, or rather carried me, a vast way on towards the shore and, having spent itself, went back, and left me upon the land almost dry, but half dead with the water I took in. I had so much presence of mind as well as breath left, that seeing myself nearer the mainland than I expected, I got upon my feet, and endeavoured to make on towards the land as fast as I could, before another wave should return and take me up again. But I soon found it was impossible to avoid it; for I saw the sea come after me as high as a great hill, and as furious as an enemy, which I had no means or strength to contend with; my business was to hold my breath and raise myself upon the water, if I could, and so by swimming to preserve my breathing and pilot myself towards the shore, if possible; my greatest concern now being that the sea, as it would carry me a great way towards the shore when it came on, might not carry me back again with it when it gave back towards the sea. The wave that came upon me again, buried me at once twenty or thirty feet deep in its own body; and I could feel myself carried with a mighty force and swiftness towards the shore a very great way; but I held my breath and assisted myself to swim still forward with all my might. I was ready to burst with holding my breath, when, as I felt myself rising up, so, to my immediate relief, I found my head and hands shoot out above the surface of the water; and though it was not two seconds of time that I could keep myself so, yet it relieved me greatly, gave me breath and new courage. I was covered again with water a good while, but not so long but I held it out; and finding the water had spent itself and began to

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 19 return, I struck forward against the return of the waves, and felt ground again with my feet. I stood still a few moments to recover breath, and till the water went from me, and then took to my heels, and ran with what strength I had farther towards the shore. But neither would this deliver me from the fury of the sea, which came pouring in after me again, and twice more I was lifted up by the waves, and carried forwards as before, the shore being very flat. The last time of these two had well near been fatal to me; for the sea, having hurried me along as before, landed me, or rather dashed me, against a piece of a rock, and that with such force as it left me senseless, and indeed helpless, as to my own deliverance; for the blow, taking my side and breast, beat the breath as it were quite out of my body; and had it returned again immediately, I must have been strangled in the water; but I recovered a little before the return of the waves, and seeing I should be covered again with the water, I resolved to hold fast by a piece of the rock, and so to hold my breath, if possible, till the wave went back; now as the waves were not so high as at first, being near land, I held my hold till the wave abated, and then fetched another run, which brought me so near the shore that the next wave, though it went over me, yet did not so swallow me up as to carry me away, and the next run I took, I got to the mainland, where, to my great comfort, I clambered up the clifts to the shore and sat me down upon the grass, free from danger, and quite out of the reach of the water. I was now landed and safe on shore, and began to look up and thank God that my life was saved in a case wherein there was some minutes before scarce any room to hope. I believe it is impossible to express to the life what the ecstasies and transports of the soul are when it is so saved, as I may say, out of the very grave; and I do not wonder now at that custom, viz., that when a malefactor who has the halter about his neck is tied up and just going to be turned off, and has a reprieve brought to him: I say, I do not wonder that they bring a surgeon with it, to let him blood that very moment they tell him of it, that the surprise may not drive the animal spirits from the heart, and overwhelm him: For sudden joys, like griefs, confound at first. I walked about on the shore, lifting up my hands, and my whole being, as I may say, wrapped up in the contemplation of my deliverance, making a thousand gestures and motions which I cannot describe, reflecting upon all my comrades that were drowned and that there should not be one soul saved but myself; for, as for them, I never saw them afterwards, or any

Daniel Defoe20 sign of them, except three of their hats, one cap, and two shoes that were not fellows. I cast my eyes to the stranded vessel, when, the breach and froth of the sea being so big, I could hardly see it, it lay so far off, and considered, Lord! how was it possible I could get on shore! After I had solaced my mind with the comfortable part of my condition, I began to look round me to see what kind of place I was in, and what was next to be done, and I soon found my comforts abate, and that, in a word, I had a dreadful deliverance. For I was wet, had no clothes to shift me, nor anything either to eat or drink to comfort me, neither did I see any prospect before me but that of perishing with hunger or being devoured by wild beasts; and that which was particular afflicting to me was that I had no weapon either to hunt and kill any creature for my sustenance or to defend myself against any other creature that might desire to kill me for theirs. In a word, I had nothing about me but a knife, a tobacco-pipe, and a little tobacco in a box; this was all my provision, and this threw me into terrible agonies of mind, that for a while I ran about like a madman. Night coming upon me, I began with a heavy heart to consider what would be my lot if there were any ravenous beasts in that country, seeing at night they always come abroad for their prey. All the remedy that offered to my thoughts at that time was to get up into a thick bushy tree like a fir, but thorny, which grew near me, and where I resolved to sit all night, and consider the next day what death I should die, for as yet I saw no prospect of life; I walked about a furlong from the shore, to see if I could find any fresh water to drink, which I did, to my great joy; and having drunk, and put a little tobacco in my mouth to prevent hunger, I went to the tree, and getting up into it, endeavoured to place myself so as that if I should sleep I might not fall; and having cut me a short stick, like a truncheon, for my defence, I took up my lodging, and having been excessively fatigued, I fell fast asleep, and slept as comfortably as, I believe, few could have done in my condition, and found myself the most refreshed with it that I think I ever was on such an occasion. I FURNISH MYSELF WITH MANY THINGS When I waked it was broad day, the weather clear, and the storm abated, so that the sea did not rage and swell as before. But that which surprised me most was that the ship was lifted off in the night from the sand where she lay, by the swelling of the tide, and was driven up almost

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 21 as far as the rock which I first mentioned, where I had been so bruised by the dashing me against it; this being within about a mile from the shore where I was and the ship seeming to stand upright still, I wished myself on board, that, at least, I might save some necessary things for my use. When I came down from my apartment in the tree, I looked about me again, and the first thing I found was the boat, which lay as the wind and the sea had tossed her up upon the land, about two miles on my right hand. I walked as far as I could upon the shore to have got to her, but found a neck or inlet of water between me and the boat, which was about half a mile broad; so I came back for the present, being more intent upon getting at the ship, where I hoped to find something for my present subsistence. A little after noon I found the sea very calm and the tide ebbed so far out that I could come within a quarter of a mile of the ship; and here I found a fresh renewing of my grief, for I saw evidently that if we had kept on board, we had been all safe, that is to say, we had all got safe on shore, and I had not been so miserable as to be left entirely destitute of all comfort and company, as I now was: this forced tears from my eyes again, but as there was little relief in that, I resolved, if possible, to get to the ship; so I pulled off my clothes, for the weather was hot to extremity, and took the water; but when I came to the ship, my difficulty was still greater to know how to get on board, for as she lay aground, and high out of the water, there was nothing within my reach to lay hold of; I swam round her twice, and the second time I spied a small piece of a rope, which I wondered I did not see at first, hang down by the forechains so low as that with great difficulty I got hold of it, and by the help of that rope got up into the forecastle of the ship. Here I found that the ship was bulged, and had a great deal of water in her hold, but that she lay so on the side of a bank of hard sand, or rather earth, that her stern lay lifted up upon the bank and her head low almost to the water; by this means all her quarter was free, and all that was in that part was dry; for you may be sure my first work was to search and to see what was spoiled and what was free; and first I found that all the ship’s provisions were dry and untouched by the water, and being very well disposed to eat, I went to the bread-room and filled my pockets with biscuit, and ate it as I went about other things, for I had no time to lose; I also found some rum in the great cabin, of which I took a large dram, and which I had indeed need enough of to spirit me for what was before me. Now I wanted nothing but a boat to furnish myself with many things which I foresaw would be very necessary to me.

Daniel Defoe22 It was in vain to sit still and wish for what was not to be had, and this extremity roused my application. We had several spare yards and two or three large spars of wood and a spare topmast or two in the ship; I resolved to fall to work with these and flung as many of them overboard as I could manage for their weight, tying every one with a rope that they might not drive away; when this was done I went down the ship’s side, and pulling them to me, I tied four of them fast together at both ends as well as I could, in the form of a raft, and laying two or three short pieces of plank upon them crossways, I found I could walk upon it very well, but that it was not able to bear any great weight, the pieces being too light; so I went to work, and with the carpenter’s saw I cut a spare topmast into three lengths and added them to my raft, with a great deal of labour and pains; but the hope of furnishing myself with necessaries encouraged me to go beyond what I should have been able to have done upon another occasion. My raft was now strong enough to bear any reasonable weight; my next care was what to load it with and how to preserve what I laid upon it from the surf of the sea; but I was not long considering this; I first laid all the planks or boards upon it that I could get, and having considered well what I most wanted, I first got three of the seamen’s chests, which I had broken open and emptied, and lowered them down upon my raft; the first of these I filled with provisions, viz., bread, rice, three Dutch cheeses, five pieces of dried goat’s flesh, which we lived much upon, and a little remainder of European corn which had been laid by for some fowls which we brought to sea with us, but the fowls were killed; there had been some barley and wheat together, but, to my great disappointment, I found afterwards that the rats had eaten or spoiled it all. As for liquors, I found several cases of bottles belonging to our skipper, in which were some cordial waters, and in all about five or six gallons of sack; these I stowed by themselves, there being no need to put them into the chest, nor no room for them. While I was doing this, I found the tide began to flow, though very calm, and I had the mortification to see my coat, shirt, and waistcoat, which I had left on shore upon the sand, swim away; as for my breeches, which were only linen, and open-kneed, I swam on board in them, and my stockings. However, this put me upon rummaging for clothes, of which I found enough, but took no more than I wanted for present use, for I had other things which my eye was more upon, as first, tools to work with on shore; and it was after long searching that I found out the carpenter’s chest, which was indeed a very useful prize to me, and much more valuable than a shiploading of gold would have been at

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 23 that time; I got it down to my raft, even whole as it was, without losing time to look into it, for I knew in general what it contained. My next care was for some ammunition and arms; there were two very good fowling pieces in the great cabin, and two pistols; these I secured first, with some powder horns, and a small bag of shot, and two old rusty swords; I knew there were three barrels of powder in the ship, but knew not where our gunner had stowed them, but with much search I found them, two of them dry and good, the third had taken water; those two I got to my raft with the arms. And now I thought myself pretty well freighted, and began to think how I should get to shore with them, having neither sail, oar, or rudder; and the least capful of wind would have overset all my navigation. I had three encouragements: 1. A smooth, calm sea. 2. The tide rising and setting in to the shore. 3. What little wind there was blew me towards the land; and thus, having found two or three broken oars belonging to the boat, and besides the tools which were in the chest, I found two saws, an axe, and a hammer, and with this cargo I put to sea. For a mile or thereabouts my raft went very well, only that I found it drive a little distant from the place where I had landed before, by which I perceived that there was some indraught of the water, and consequently I hoped to find some creek or river there which I might make use of as a port to get to land with my cargo. As I imagined, so it was; there appeared before me a little opening of the land, and I found a strong current of the tide set into it, so I guided my raft as well as I could to keep in the middle of the stream. But here I had like to have suffered a second shipwreck, which, if I had, I think verily would have broke my heart; for knowing nothing of the coast, my raft ran aground at one end of it upon a shoal, and not being aground at the other end, it wanted but a little that all my cargo had slipped off towards that end that was afloat, and so fallen into the water. I did my utmost by setting my back against the chests to keep them in their places, but could not thrust off the raft with all my strength, neither durst I stir from the posture I was in, but holding up the chests with all my might, stood in that manner near half an hour, in which time the rising of the water brought me a little more upon a level; and a little after, the water still rising, my raft floated again, and I thrust her off with the oar I had, into the channel, and then driving up higher, I at length found myself in the mouth of a little river, with land on both sides, and a strong current or tide running up; I looked on both sides for a proper place to get to shore, for I was not willing to be driven too high up the river, hoping in time

Daniel Defoe24 to see some ship at sea and therefore resolved to place myself as near the coast as I could. At length I spied a little cove on the right shore of the creek, to which with great pain and difficulty I guided my raft, and at last got so near as that, reaching ground with my oar, I could thrust her directly in; but here I had like to have dipped all my cargo in the sea again; for that shore lying pretty steep, that is to say, sloping, there was no place to land, but where one end of my float, if it run on shore, would lie so high and the other sink lower as before, that it would endanger my cargo again. All that I could do was to wait till the tide was at the highest, keeping the raft with my oar like an anchor to hold the side of it fast to the shore, near a flat piece of ground, which I expected the water would flow over; and so it did. As soon as I found water enough (for my raft drew about a foot of water), I thrust her on upon that flat piece of ground and there f astened or moored her by sticking my two broken oars into the ground, one on one side near one end, and one on the other side near the other end; and thus I lay till the water ebbed away and left my raft and all my cargo safe on shore. My next work was to view the country, and seek a proper place for my habitation, and where to stow my goods, to secure them from whatever might happen. Where I was I yet knew not, whether on the continent or on an island; whether inhabited or not inhabited; whether in danger of wild beasts or not. There was a hill not above a mile from me, which rose up very steep and high, and which seemed to overtop some other hills which lay as in a ridge from it northward. I took out one of the fowling pieces, and one of the pistols, and a horn of powder, and thus armed I traveled for discovery up to the top of that hill, where, after I had with great labour and difficulty got to the top, I saw my fate to my great affliction, viz., that I was in an island environed every way with the sea, no land to be seen, except some rocks which lay a great way off, and two small islands less than this, which lay about three leagues to the west. I found also that the island I was in was barren and, as I saw good reason to believe, uninhabited, except by wild beasts, of whom, however, I saw none, yet I saw abundance of fowls, but knew not their kinds, neither when I killed them could I tell what was fit for food, and what not; at my coming back, I shot at a great bird which I saw sitting upon a tree on the side of a great wood. I believe it was the first gun that had been fired there since the creation of the world; I had no sooner fired but from all the parts of the wood there arose an innumerable number of fowls of many sorts, making a confused screaming, and crying every one according to his usual note; but not one of them of any kind that I knew. As for the crea-

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 25 ture I killed, I took it to be a kind of a hawk, its colour and beak resembling it, but had no talons or claws more than common; its flesh was carrion and fit for nothing. Contented with this discovery, I came back to my raft and fell to work to bring my cargo on shore, which took me up the rest of that day, and what to do with myself at night I knew not, nor indeed where to rest; for I was afraid to lie down on the ground, not knowing but some wild beast might devour me, though, as I afterwards found, there was really no need for those fears. However, as well as I could, I barricaded myself round with the chests and boards that I had brought on shore, and made a kind of a hut for that night’s lodging; as for food, I yet saw not which way to supply myself, except that I had seen two or three creatures like hares run out of the wood where I shot the fowl. I now began to consider that I might yet get a great many things out of the ship, which would be useful to me, and particularly some of the rigging and sails, and such other things as might come to land, and I resolved to make another voyage on board the vessel, if possible; and as I knew that the first storm that blew must necessarily break her all in pieces, I resolved to set all other things apart, till I got everything out of the ship that I could get; then I called a council, that is to say, in my thoughts, whether I should take back the raft, but this appeared impracticable; so I resolved to go as before, when the tide was down, and I did so, only that I stripped before I went from my hut, having nothing on but a checkered shirt and a pair of linen drawers and a pair of pumps on my feet. I got on board the ship as before, and prepared a second raft, and having had experience of the first, I neither made this so unwieldy, nor loaded it so hard, but yet I brought away several things very useful to me; as first, in the carpenter’s stores I found two or three bags full of nails and spikes, a great screwjack, a dozen or two of hatchets, and above all, that most useful thing called a grindstone; all these I secured together, with several things belonging to the gunner, particularly two or three iron crows and two barrels of musket bullets, seven muskets, and another fowling piece, with some small quantity of powder more; a large bag full of small shot, and a great roll of sheet lead. But this last was so heavy, I could not hoist it up to get it over the ship’s side. Besides these things, I took all the men’s clothes that I could find, and a spare fore-topsail, hammock, and some bedding; and with this I loaded my second raft, and brought them all safe on shore to my very great comfort.

Daniel Defoe26 I was under some apprehensions during my absence from the land, that at least my provisions might be devoured on shore; but when I came back I found no sign of any visitor, only there sat a creature like a wild cat upon one of the chests, which when I came towards it, ran away a little distance, and then stood still; she sat very composed and unconcerned, and looked full in my face, as if she had a mind to be acquainted with me. I presented my gun at her, but as she did not understand it, she was perfectly unconcerned at it, nor did she offer to stir away; upon which I tossed her a bit of biscuit, though, by the way, I was not very free of it, for my store was not great. However, I spared her a bit, I say, and she went to it, smelled of it, and ate it and looked (as pleased) for more, but I thanked her, and could spare no more; so she marched off. Having got my second cargo on shore (though I was fain to open the barrels of powder and bring them by parcels, for they were too heavy, being large casks), I went to work to make me a little tent with the sail and some poles which I cut for that purpose; and into this tent I brought everything that I knew would spoil, either with rain, or sun, and I piled all the empty chests and casks up in a circle round the tent, to fortify it from any sudden attempt, either from man or beast. When I had done this, I blocked up the door of the tent with some boards within, and an empty chest set up on end without, and spreading one of the beds upon the ground, laying my two pistols just at my head and my gun at length by me, I went to bed for the first time, and slept very quietly all night, for I was very weary and heavy, for the night before I had slept little, and had laboured very hard all day, as well to fetch all those things from the ship, as to get them on shore. I had the biggest magazine of all kinds now that ever was laid up, I believe, for one man; but I was not satisfied still; for while the ship sat upright in that posture, I thought I ought to get everything out of her that I could; so every day at low water I went on board, and brought away something or other. But particularly the third time I went, I brought away as much of the rigging as I could, as also all the small ropes and rope-twine I could get, with a piece of spare canvas, which was to mend the sails upon occasion, and the barrel of wet gunpowder. In a word, I brought away all the sails first and last, only that I was f ain to cut them in pieces, and bring as much at a time as I could; for they were no more useful to be sails, but as mere canvas only. But that which comforted me more still was that at last of all, after I had made five or six such voyages as these, and thought I had nothing more to expect from the ship that was worth my meddling with; I say,

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 27 after all this, I found a great hogshead of bread, and three large runlets of rum or spirits, and a box of sugar, and a barrel of fine flour; this was surprising to me, because I had given over expecting any more provisions, except what was spoiled by the water. I soon emptied the hogshead of that bread, and wrapped it up parcel by parcel in pieces of the sails, which I cut out; and in a word, I got all this safe on shore also. The next day I made another voyage; and now having plundered the ship of what was portable and fit to hand out, I began with the cables; and cutting the great cable into pieces such as I could move, I got two cables and a hawser on shore, with all the ironwork I could get; and having cut down the spritsail yard, and the mizzen yard, and everything I could to make a large raft, I loaded it with all those heavy goods, and came away. But my good luck began now to leave me; for this raft was so unwieldy and so overloaden, that after I was entered the little cove, where I had landed the rest of my goods, not being able to guide it so handily as I did the other, it overset, and threw me and all my cargo into the water. As for myself it was no great harm, for I was near the shore; but as to my cargo, it was great part of it lost, especially the iron, which I expected would have been of great use to me. However, when the tide was out, I got most of the pieces of cable ashore, and some of the iron, though with infinite labour; for I was fain to dip for it into the water, a work which fatigued me very much. After this I went every day on board, and brought away what I could get. I had been now thirteen days on shore, and had been eleven times on board the ship; in which time I had brought away all that one pair of hands could well be supposed capable to bring, though I believe verily, had the calm weather held, I should have brought away the whole ship, piece by piece. But preparing the twelfth time to go on board, I found the wind began to rise; however, at low water I went on board, and though I thought I had rummaged the cabin so effectually, as that nothing more could be found, yet I discovered a locker with drawers in it, in one of which I found two or three razors and one pair of large scissors, with some ten or a dozen of good knives and forks; in another I found about thirty-six pounds value in money, some European coin, some Brazil, some pieces of eight, some gold, some silver. I smiled to myself at the sight of this money. “O drug!” said I aloud, “what art thou good for? Thou art not worth to me, no, not the taking off of the ground; one of those knives is worth all this heap; I have no manner of use for thee; e’en remain where thou art and go to the bottom as a creature whose life is not worth saving.” However, upon second

Daniel Defoe28 thoughts, I took it away, and wrapping all this in a piece of canvas, I began to think of making another raft; but while I was preparing this, I found the sky overcast, and the wind began to rise, and in a quarter of an hour it blew a fresh gale from the shore; it presently occurred to me that it was in vain to pretend to make a raft with the wind off shore, and that it was my business to be gone before the tide of flood began, otherwise I might not be able to reach the shore at all. Accordingly I let myself down into the water and swam across the channel, which lay between the ship and the sands, and even that with difficulty enough, partly with the weight of the things I had about me, and partly the roughness of the water, for the wind rose very hastily, and before it was quite high water, it blew a storm. But I was gotten home to my little tent, where I lay with all my wealth about me very secure. It blew very hard all that night, and in the morning, when I looked out, behold, no more ship was to be seen; I was a little surprised, but recovered myself with this satisfactory reflection, viz., that I had lost no time, nor abated no diligence to get everything out of her that could be useful to me, and that indeed there was little left in her that I was able to bring away if I had had more time. I now gave over any more thoughts of the ship, or of anything out of her, except what might drive on shore from her wreck, as indeed divers pieces of her afterwards did; but those things were of small use to me. I BUILD MY FORTRESS My thoughts were now wholly employed about securing myself against either savages, if any should appear, or wild beasts, if any were in the island; and I had many thoughts of the method how to do this, and what kind of dwelling to make; whether I should make me a cave in the earth, or a tent upon the earth. And, in short, I resolved upon both; the manner and description of which it may not be improper to give an account of. I soon found the place I was in was not for my settlement, particularly because it was upon a low moorish ground near the sea, and I believed would not be wholesome, and more particularly because there was no fresh water near it; so I resolved to find a more healthy and more convenient spot of ground. I consulted several things in my situation, which I found would be proper for me: first, health and fresh water I just now mentioned; secondly, shelter from the heat of the sun; thirdly, security from ravenous creatures, whether man or beast; fourthly, a view to the sea, that if God

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 29 sent any ship in sight, I might not lose any advantage for my deliverance, of which I was not willing to banish all my expectation yet. In search of a place proper for this, I found a little plain on the side of a rising hill, whose front towards this little plain was steep as a house- side, so that nothing could come down upon me from the top; on the side of this rock there was a hollow place worn a little way in like the entrance or door of a cave, but there was not really any cave or way into the rock at all. On the flat of the green, just before this hollow place, I resolved to pitch my tent. This plain was not above a hundred yards broad, and about twice as long, and lay like a green before my door, and at the end of it descended irregularly every way down into the low grounds by the seaside. It was on the north-northwest side of the hill, so that I was sheltered from the heat every day, till it came to a west and by south sun, or thereabouts, which in those countries is near the setting. Before I set up my tent, I drew a half circle before the hollow place, which took in about ten yards in its semi-diameter from the rock, and twenty yards in its diameter, from its beginning and ending. In this half circle I pitched two rows of strong stakes, driving them into the ground till they stood very firm like piles, the biggest end being out of the ground about five foot and a half, and sharpened on the top. The two rows did not stand above six inches from one another. Then I took the pieces of cable which I had cut in the ship, and laid them in rows one upon another, within the circle between these two rows of stakes, up to the top, placing other stakes in the inside, leaning against them, about two foot and a half high, like a spur to a post; and this fence was so strong that neither man nor beast could get into it or over it. This cost me a great deal of time and labour, especially to cut the piles in the woods, bring them to the place, and drive them into the earth. The entrance into this place I made to be, not by a door, but by a short ladder to go over the top, which ladder, when I was in, I lifted over after me, and so I was completely fenced in, and fortified, as I thought, from all the world, and consequently slept secure in the night, which otherwise I could not have done, though, as it appeared afterwards, there was no need of all this caution from the enemies that I apprehended danger from. Into this fence or fortress, with infinite labour, I carried all my riches, all my provisions, ammunition, and stores, of which you have the account above; and I made me a large tent, which, to preserve me from the rains that in one part of the year are very violent there, I made double, viz.,

Daniel Defoe30 one smaller tent within, and one larger tent above it, and covered the uppermost with a large tarpaulin which I had saved among the sails. And now I lay no more for a while in the bed which I had brought on shore, but in a hammock, which was indeed a very good one and belonged to the mate of the ship. Into this tent I brought all my provisions, and every thing that would spoil by the wet, and having thus enclosed all my goods, I made up the entrance, which till now I had left open, and so passed and repassed, as I said, by a short ladder. When I had done this, I began to work my way into the rock, and bringing all the earth and stones that I dug down out through my tent, I laid them up within my fence in the nature of a terrace, so that it raised the ground within about a foot and a half; and thus I made a cave just behind my tent, which served me like a cellar to my house. It cost me much labour, and many days, before all these things were brought to perfection, and therefore I must go back to some other things which took up some of my thoughts. At the same time it happened, after I had laid my scheme for the setting up my tent and making the cave, that a storm of rain falling from a thick dark cloud, a sudden flash of lightning happened, and after that, a great clap of thunder, as is naturally the effect of it. I was not so much surprised with the lightning, as I was with a thought which darted into my mind as swift as the lightning itself: O my powder! My very heart sunk within me, when I thought, that at one blast all my powder might be destroyed; on which, not my defence only, but the providing me food, as I thought, entirely depended; I was nothing near so anxious about my own danger, though had the powder took fire, I had never known who had hurt me. Such impression did this make upon me, that after the storm was over, I laid aside all my works, my building and fortifying, and applied myself to make bags and boxes to separate the powder, and keep it a little and a little in a parcel, in hope that whatever might come, it might not all take fire at once, and to keep it so apart that it should not be possible to make one part fire another. I finished this work in about a fortnight, and I think my powder, which in all was about 240 pounds’ weight, was divided in not less than a hundred parcels; as to the barrel that had been wet, I did not apprehend any danger from that, so I placed it in my new cave, which in my fancy I called my kitchen, and the rest I hid up and down in holes among the rocks, so that no wet might come to it, marking very carefully where I laid it. In the interval of time while this was doing, I went out at least once

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 31 every day with my gun, as well to divert myself as to see if I could kill anything fit for food, and as near as I could to acquaint myself with what the island produced. The first time I went out, I presently discovered that there were goats in the island, which was a great satisfaction to me; but then it was attended with this misfortune to me, viz., that they were so shy, so subtile, and so swift of foot that it was the difficultest thing in the world to come at them. But I was not discouraged at this, not doubting but I might now and then shoot one, as it soon happened; for after I had found their haunts a little, I laid wait in this manner for them: I observed, if they saw me in the valleys, though they were upon the rocks, they would run away as in a terrible fright; but if they were feeding in the valleys, and I was upon the rocks, they took no notice of me; from whence I concluded, that by the position of their optics, their sight was so directed downward that they did not readily see objects that were above them; so afterwards I took this method, I always climbed the rocks first, to get above them, and then had frequently a fair mark. The first shot I made among these creatures, I killed a she- goat which had a little kid by her which she gave suck to, which grieved me heartily; but when the old one fell, the kid stood stock still by her till I came and took her up, and not only so, but when I carried the old one with me upon my shoulders, the kid followed me quite to my enclosure, upon which I laid down the dam and took the kid in my arms, and carried it over my pale, in hopes to have bred it up tame, but it would not eat, so I was forced to kill it and eat it myself; these two supplied me with flesh a great while, for I ate sparingly, and saved my provisions (my bread especially) as much as possibly I could. Having now fixed my habitation, I found it absolutely necessary to provide a place to make a fire in, and fuel to burn; and what I did for that, as also how I enlarged my cave, and what conveniences I made, I shall give a full account of in its place. But I must first give some little account of myself and of my thoughts about living, which it may well be supposed were not a few. I had a dismal prospect of my condition, for as I was not cast away upon that island without being driven, as is said, by a violent storm quite out of the course of our intended voyage and a great way, viz., some hundreds of leagues out of the ordinary course of the trade of mankind, I had great reason to consider it as a determination of Heaven, that in this desolate place and in this desolate manner I should end my life; the tears would run plentifully down my face when I made these reflections, and sometimes I would expostulate with myself why Provi-

Daniel Defoe32 dence should thus completely ruin its creatures and render them so absolutely miserable, so without help abandoned, so entirely depressed, that it could hardly be rational to be thankful for such a life. But something always returned swift upon me to check these thoughts and to reprove me; and particularly one day, walking with my gun in my hand by the seaside, I was very pensive upon the subject of my present condition, when Reason, as it were, put in, expostulating with me t’ other way, thus: “Well, you are in a desolate condition, ’tis true, but pray remember, where are the rest of you? Did not you come eleven of you into the boat? Where are the ten? Why were not they saved, and you lost? Why were you singled out? Is it better to be here or there?” And then I pointed to the sea. All evils are to be considered with the good that is in them, and with what worse attends them. Then it occurred to me again how well I was furnished for my subsistence, and what would have been my case if it had not happened, which was a hundred thousand to one, that the ship floated from the place where she first struck, and was driven so near to the shore that I had time to get all these things out of her. What would have been my case if I had been to have lived in the condition in which I at first came on shore, without necessaries of life, or necessaries to supply and procure them? “Particularly,” said I aloud (though to myself ), “what should I have done without a gun, without ammunition, without any tools to make anything or to work with, without clothes, bedding, a tent, or any manner of coverings?” and that now I had all these to a sufficient quantity, and was in a fair way to provide myself in such a manner as to live without my gun when my ammunition was spent; so that I had a tolerable view of subsisting without any want as long as I lived; for I considered from the beginning how I would provide for the accidents that might happen, and for the time that was to come, even not only after my ammunition should be spent, but even after my health or strength should decay. I confess I had not entertained any notion of my ammunition being destroyed at one blast, I mean my powder being blown up by lightning, and this made the thoughts of it so surprising to me when it lightened and thundered, as I observed just now. And now being to enter into a melancholy relation of a scene of silent life, such perhaps as was never heard of in the world before, I shall take it from its beginning, and continue it in its order. It was, by my account, the 30th of September when, in the manner as above said, I first set foot upon this horrid island, when the sun, being, to us, in its autumnal equi-

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 33 nox, was almost just over my head, for I reckoned myself, by observation, to be in the latitude of 9 degrees 22 minutes north of the line. After I had been there about ten or twelve days, it came into my thoughts, that I should lose my reckoning of time for want of books, and pen and ink, and should even forget the Sabbath days from the working days; but to prevent this, I cut it with my knife upon a large post, in capital letters, and making it into a great cross, I set it up on the shore where I first landed, viz., “I came on shore here the 30th of September 1659.” Upon the sides of this square post I cut every day a notch with my knife, and every seventh notch was as long again as the rest, and every first day of the month as long again as that long one; and thus I kept my calendar, or weekly, monthly, and yearly reckoning of time. In the next place we are to observe that among the many things which I brought off the ship in the several voyages which, as above mentioned, I made to it, I got several things of less value, but not all less useful to me, which I omitted setting down before; as in particular, pens, ink, and paper, several parcels in the captain’s, mate’s, gunner’s, and carpenter’s keeping, three or four compasses, some mathematical instruments, dials, perspectives, charts, and books of navigation, all which I huddled together, whether I might want them or no; also I found three very good Bibles, which came to me in my cargo from England, and which I had packed up among my things; some Portuguese books also, and among them two or three Popish prayer-books, and several other books, all which I carefully secured. And I must not forget that we had in the ship a dog and two cats, of whose eminent history I may have occasion to say something in its place; for I carried both the cats with me; and as for the dog, he jumped out of the ship of himself, and swam on shore to me the day after I went on shore with my first cargo and was a trusty servant to me many years; I wanted nothing that he could fetch me, nor any company that he could make up to me; I only wanted to have him talk to me, but that would not do. As I observed before, I found pen, ink, and paper, and I husbanded them to the utmost; and I shall show that while my ink lasted, I kept things very exact; but after that was gone, I could not, for I could not make any ink by any means that I could devise. And this put me in mind that I wanted many things, notwithstanding all that I had amassed together; and of these, this of ink was one, as also spade, pickaxe, and shovel, to dig or remove the earth; needles, pins, and thread; as for linen, I soon learned to want that without much difficulty.

Daniel Defoe34 This want of tools made every work I did go on heavily, and it was near a whole year before I had entirely finished my little pale, or surrounded habitation. The piles, or stakes, which were as heavy as I could well lift, were a long time in cutting and preparing in the woods, and more by far in bringing home, so that I spent sometimes two days in cutting and bringing home one of those posts and a third day in driving it into the ground; for which purpose I got a heavy piece of wood at first, but at last bethought myself of one of the iron crows, which, however, though I found it, yet it made driving those posts or piles very laborious and tedious work. But what need I have been concerned at the tediousness of anything I had to do, seeing I had time enough to do it in? Nor had I any other employment if that had been over, at least that I could foresee, except the ranging the island to seek for food, which I did more or less every day. I now began to consider seriously my condition, and the circumstance I was reduced to; and I drew up the state of my affairs in writing, not so much to leave them to any that were to come after me, for I was like to have but few heirs, as to deliver my thoughts from daily poring upon them, and afflicting my mind; and as my reason began now to master my despondency, I began to comfort myself as well as I could, and to set the good against the evil, that I might have something to distinguish my case from worse; and I stated it very impartially, like debtor and creditor, the comforts I enjoyed, against the miseries I suffered, thus: I am cast upon a horrible desolate island, void of all hope of recovery. I am singled out and separated, as it were, from all the world to be miserable. I am divided from mankind, a solitaire, one banished from human society. I have no clothes to cover me. But I am alive, and not drowned, as all my ship’s company was. But I am singled out too from all the ship’s crew to be spared from death; and He that miraculously saved me from death can deliver me from this condition. But I am not starved and perishing on a barren place, affording no sustenance. But I am in a hot climate, where if I had clothes, I could hardly wear them. Evil Good

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 35 Upon the whole, here was an undoubted testimony that there was scarce any condition in the world so miserable but there was something negative or something positive to be thankful for in it; and let this stand as a direction from the experience of the most miserable of all conditions in this world, that we may always find in it something to comfort ourselves from, and to set in the description of good and evil, on the credit side of the account. Having now brought my mind a little to relish my condition and given over looking out to sea, to see if I could spy a ship; I say, giving over these things, I began to apply myself to accommodate my way of living and to make things as easy to me as I could. I have already described my habitation, which was a tent under the side of a rock, surrounded with a strong pale of posts and cables, but I might now rather call it a wall; for I raised a kind of wall up against it of turfs, about two foot thick on the outside; and after some time (I think it was a year and a half) I raised rafters from it, leaning to the rock, and thatched or covered it with boughs of trees and such things as I could get to keep out the rain, which I found at some times of the year very violent. I have already observed how I brought all my goods into this pale, and into the cave which I had made behind me. But I must observe, too, that at first this was a confused heap of goods, which as they lay in no order, so they took up all my place; I had no room to turn myself; so I set myself to enlarge my cave and works farther into the earth, for it was a loose sandy rock, which yielded easily to the labour I bestowed on it. And so, when I found I was pretty safe as to beasts of prey, I worked sideways to the right hand into the rock; and then turning to the right again, worked quite out, and made me a door to come out on the outside of my pale or fortification. This gave me not only egress and regress, as it were a back way to my tent and to my storehouse, but gave me room to stow my goods. I am without any defence or means to resist any violence of man or beast. I have no soul to speak to, or relieve me. But I am cast on an island, where I see no wild beasts to hurt me, as I saw on the coast of Africa. And what if I had been shipwrecked there? But God wonderfully sent the ship in near enough to the shore, that I have gotten out so many necessary things as will either supply my wants, or enable me to supply myself even as long as I live.

Daniel Defoe36 And now I began to apply myself to make such necessary things as I found I most wanted, particularly a chair and a table; for without these I was not able to enjoy the few comforts I had in the world; I could not write or eat, or do several things, with so much pleasure without a table. So I went to work; and here I must needs observe that as reason is the substance and original of the mathematics, so by stating and squaring everything by reason, and by making the most rational judgment of things, every man may be in time master of every mechanic art. I had never handled a tool in my life, and yet in time, by labour, application, and contrivance, I found at last that I wanted nothing but I could have made it, especially if I had had tools; however, I made abundance of things even without tools, and some with no more tools than an adze and a hatchet, which perhaps were never made that way before, and that with infinite labour. For example, if I wanted a board, I had no other way but to cut down a tree, set it on an edge before me, and hew it flat on either side with my axe, till I had brought it to be thin as a plank, and then dub it smooth with my adze. It is true, by this method I could make but one board out of a whole tree, but this I had no remedy for but patience, any more than I had for the prodigious deal of time and labour which it took me up to make a plank or board. But my time or labour was little worth, and so it was as well employed one way as another. However, I made me a table and a chair, as I observed above, in the first place, and this I did out of the short pieces of boards that I brought on my raft from the ship. But when I had wrought out some boards, as above, I made large shelves of the breadth of a foot and a half, one over another, all along one side of my cave, to lay all my tools, nails, and ironwork, and in a word, to separate everything at large in their places, that I might easily come at them; I knocked pieces into the wall of the rock to hang my guns and all things that would hang up. So that had my cave been to be seen, it looked like a general magazine of all necessary things; and I had everything so ready at my hand, that it was a great pleasure to me to see all my goods in such order, and especially to find my stock of all necessaries so great. And now it was when I began to keep a journal of every day’s employment; for, indeed, at first I was in too much hurry, and not only hurry as to labour, but in too much discomposure of mind, and my journal would have been full of many dull things. For example, I must have said thus: September the 30th. After I got to shore, and had escaped drowning,

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 37 instead of being thankful to God for my deliverance, having first vomited with the great quantity of salt water which was gotten into my stomach, and recovering myself a little, I ran about the shore, wringing my hands and beating my head and face, exclaiming at my misery and crying out I was undone, undone, till, tired and faint, I was forced to lie down on the ground to repose, but durst not sleep, for fear of being devoured. Some days after this, and after I had been on board the ship and got all that I could out of her, yet I could not forbear getting up to the top of a little mountain, and looking out to sea, in hopes of seeing a ship, then fancy at a vast distance I spied a sail, please myself with the hopes of it and then, after looking steadily till I was almost blind, lose it quite, and sit down and weep like a child, and thus increase my misery by my folly. But having gotten over these things in some measure and having settled my household stuff and habitation, made me a table and a chair, and all as handsome about me as I could, I began to keep my journal, of which I shall here give you the copy (though in it will be told all these particulars over again) as long as it lasted, for, having no more ink, I was forced to leave it off. [Crusoe describes his daily activities in his journal.] I THROW AWAY TH E HUSKS OF CORN During this time, I made my rounds in the woods for game every day when the rain admitted me, and made frequent discoveries in these walks of something or other to my advantage; particularly I found a kind of wild pigeons, who built not as wood pigeons in a tree, but rather as house pigeons, in the holes of the rocks; and taking some young ones, I endeavoured to breed them up tame, and did so; but when they grew older, they flew all away, which perhaps was at first for want of feeding them, for I had nothing to give them; however, I frequently found their nests, and got their young ones, which were very good meat. And now in the managing my household affairs, I found myself wanting in many things, which I thought at first it was impossible for me to make, as indeed as to some of them it was; for instance, I could never make a cask to be hooped; I had a small runlet or two, as I observed before, but I could never arrive to the capacity of making one by them, though I spent many weeks about it; I could neither put in the heads, or join the staves so true to one another, as to make them hold water; so I gave that also over.

Daniel Defoe38 In the next place, I was at a great loss for candle; so that as soon as ever it was dark, which was generally by seven o’clock, I was obliged to go to bed. I remembered the lump of beeswax with which I made candles in my African adventure; but I had none of that now. The only remedy I had was that, when I had killed a goat, I saved the tallow, and with a little dish made of clay, which I baked in the sun, to which I added a wick of some oakum, I made me a lamp; and this gave me light, though not a clear, steady light like a candle. In the middle of all my labours it happened that, rummaging my things, I found a little bag, which, as I hinted before, had been filled with corn for the feeding of poultry, not for this voyage, but before, as I suppose, when the ship came from Lisbon; what little remained of corn [barley] had been in the bag was all devoured with the rats, and I saw nothing in the bag but husks and dust; and being willing to have the bag for some other use (I think it was to put powder in, when I divided it for fear of the lightning, or some such use), I shook the husks of corn out of it on one side of my fortification under the rock. It was a little before the great rains, just now mentioned, that I threw this stuff away, taking no notice of anything, and not so much as remembering that I had thrown anything there; when about a month after or thereabouts, I saw some few stalks of something green shooting out of the ground, which I fancied might be some plant I had not seen; but I was surprised and perfectly astonished, when after a little longer time I saw about ten or twelve ears come out, which were perfect green barley of the same kind as our European, nay, as our English barley. It is impossible to express the astonishment and confusion of my thoughts on this occasion; I had hitherto acted upon no religious founda- tion at all; indeed I had very few notions of religion in my head, nor had entertained any sense of anything that had befallen me, otherwise than as a chance, or, as we lightly say, what pleases God; without so much as inquiring into the end of Providence in these things, or His order in governing events in the world. But after I saw barley grow there, in a climate which I know was not proper for corn, and especially that I knew not how it came there, it startled me strangely, and I began to suggest that God had miraculously caused this grain to grow without any help of seed sown, and that it was so directed purely for my sustenance on that wild miserable place. This touched my heart a little and brought tears out of my eyes, and I began to bless myself, that such a prodigy of Nature should happen upon my account; and this was the more strange to me because I saw near

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 39 it still, all along by the side of the rock, some other straggling stalks, which proved to be stalks of rice, and which I knew, because I had seen it grow in Africa when I was ashore there. I not only thought these the pure productions of Providence for my support, but not doubting but that there was more in the place, I went all over that part of the island where I had been before, peering in every corner and under every rock, to see for more of it, but I could not find any; at last it occurred to my thoughts that I had shook a bag of chickens’ meat out in that place, and then the wonder began to cease; and I must confess, my religious thankfulness to God’s Providence began to abate too upon the discovering that all this was nothing but what was common; though I ought to have been as thankful for so strange and unforeseen Providence, as if it had been miraculous; for it was really the work of Providence as to me, that should order or appoint, that ten or twelve grains of corn should remain unspoiled (when the rats had destroyed all the rest), as if it had been dropped from Heaven; as also that I should throw it out in that particular place where, it being in the shade of a high rock, it sprang up immediately; whereas, if I had thrown it anywhere else at that time, it had been burnt up and destroyed. I carefully saved the ears of this corn, you may be sure, in their season, which was about the end of June; and laying up every corn, I resolved to sow them all again, hoping in time to have some quantity sufficient to supply me with bread; but it was not till the fourth year that I could allow myself the least grain of this corn to eat, and even then but sparingly, as I shall say afterwards in its order; for I lost all that I sowed the first season by not observing the proper time; for I sowed it just before the dry season, so that it never came up at all, at least not as it would have done. Of which in its place. Besides this barley, there was, as above, twenty or thirty stalks of rice, which I preserved with the same care, and whose use was of the same kind, or to the same purpose, viz., to make me bread, or rather food; for I found ways to cook it up without baking, though I did that also after some time. [Crusoe continues his journal. He sows his grain.] I TRAVEL QUITE ACROSS THE ISLAND I mentioned before that I had a great mind to see the whole island, and that I had travelled up the brook, and so on to where I built my bower, and where I had an opening quite to the sea on the other side

Daniel Defoe40 of the island; I now resolved to travel quite across to the sea-shore on that side; so taking my gun, a hatchet, and my dog, and a larger quantity of powder and shot than usual, with two biscuit cakes and a great bunch of raisins in my pouch for my store, I began my journey. When I had passed the vale where my bower stood, as above, I came within view of the sea to the west, and it being a very clear day, I fairly descried land, whether an island or a continent I could not tell; but it lay very high, extending from the west to the west-southwest at a very great distance; by my guess it could not be less than fifteen or twenty leagues off. I could not tell what part of the world this might be, otherwise than that I knew it must be part of America; and, as I concluded by all my observations, must be near the Spanish dominions, and perhaps was all inhabited by savages, where if I should have landed, I had been in a worse condition than I was now; and therefore I acquiesced in the dispositions of Providence, which, I began now to own, and to believe, ordered everything for the best; I say, I quieted my mind with this, and left afflicting myself with fruitless wishes of being there. Besides, after some pause upon this affair, I considered that if this land was the Spanish coast, I should certainly, one time or other, see some vessel pass or repass one way or other; but if not, then it was the savage coast between the Spanish country and Brazil, which are indeed the worst of savages; for they are cannibals, or men-eaters, and fail not to murder and devour all the human bodies that fall into their hands. With these considerations I walked very leisurely forward. I found that side of the island, where I now was, much pleasanter than mine, the open or savanna fields sweet, adorned with flowers and grass, and full of very fine woods. I saw abundance of parrots, and fain I would have caught one, if possible, to have kept it to be tame and taught it to speak to me. I did, after some painstaking, catch a young parrot, for I knocked it down with a stick, and having recovered it, I brought it home; but it was some years before I could make him speak. However, at last I taught him to call me by my name very familiarly. But the accident that followed, though it be a trifle, will be very diverting in its place. I was exceedingly diverted with this journey. I found in the low grounds hares, as I thought them to be, and foxes, but they differed greatly from all the other kinds I had met with; nor could I satisfy myself to eat them, though I killed several. But I had no need to be venturous; for I

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 41 had no want of food, and of that which was very good too; especially these three sorts, viz., goats, pigeons, and turtle or tortoise; which, added to my grapes, Leadenhall Market could not have furnished a table better than I, in proportion to the company; and though my case was deplorable enough, yet I had great cause for thankfulness, that I was not driven to any extremities for food; but rather plenty, even to dainties. I never travelled in this journey above two miles outright in a day, or thereabouts; but I took so many turns and returns, to see what discoveries I could make, that I came weary enough to the place where I resolved to sit down for all night; and then I either reposed myself in a tree, or surrounded myself with a row of stakes set upright in the ground, either from one tree to another, or so as no wild creature could come at me without waking me. As soon as I came to the sea-shore, I was surprised to see that I had taken up my lot on the worst side of the island; for here indeed the shore was covered with innumerable turtles, whereas on the other side I had found but three in a year and a half. Here was also an infinite number of fowls of many kinds, some which I had seen, and some of which I had not seen before, and many of them very good meat; but such as I knew not the names of, except those called penguins. I could have shot as many as I pleased, but was very sparing of my powder and shot; and therefore had more mind to kill a she-goat, if I could, which I could better feed on; and though there were many goats here more than on my side the island, yet it was with much more difficulty that I could come near them, the country being flat and even, and they saw me much sooner than when I was on the hill. I confess this side of the country was much pleasanter than mine, but yet I had not the least inclination to remove; for as I was fixed in my habitation, it became natural to me, and I seemed all the while I was here to be, as it were, upon a journey, and from home. However, I travelled along the shore of the sea, towards the east, I suppose about twelve miles; and then setting up a great pole upon the shore for a mark, I concluded I would go home again; and that the next journey I took should be on the other side of the island, east from my dwelling, and so round till I came to my post again. Of which in its place. I took another way to come back than that I went, thinking I could easily keep all the island so much in my view that I could not miss finding my first dwelling by viewing the country; but I found myself mistaken; for being come about two or three miles, I found myself descended

Daniel Defoe42 into a very large valley, but so surrounded with hills, and those hills covered with wood, that I could not see which was my way by any direction but that of the sun, nor even then, unless I knew very well the position of the sun at that time of the day. It happened, to my further misfortune, that the weather proved hazy for three or four days while I was in this valley; and not being able to see the sun, I wandered about very uncomfortably, and at last was obliged to find out the seaside, look for my post, and come back the same way I went; and then by easy journeys I turned homeward, the weather being exceeding hot, and my gun, ammunition, hatchet, and other things very heavy. In this journey my dog surprised a young kid, and seized upon it, and I, running in to take hold of it, caught it, and saved it alive from the dog. I had a great mind to bring it home if I could; for I had often been musing, whether it might not be possible to get a kid or two and so raise a breed of tame goats, which might supply me when my powder and shot should be all spent. I made a collar to this little creature, and with a string which I made of some rope-yarn which I always carried about me, I led him along, though with some difficulty, till I came to my bower, and there I enclosed him and left him; for I was very impatient to be at home, from whence I had been absent above a month. I cannot express what a satisfaction it was to me to come into my old hutch and lie down in my hammock-bed. This little wandering journey, without settled place of abode, had been so unpleasant to me that my own house, as I called it to myself, was a perfect settlement to me compared to that; and it rendered everything about me so comfortable that I resolved I would never go a great way from it again while it should be my lot to stay on the island. I reposed myself here a week, to rest and regale myself after my long journey; during which most of the time was taken up in the weighty affair of making a cage for my Poll, who began now to be a mere domestic and to be mighty well acquainted with me. Then I began to think of the poor kid, which I had penned in within my little circle, and resolved to go and fetch it home, or give it some food; accordingly I went, and found it where I left it; for indeed it could not get out, but was almost starved for want of food. I went and cut boughs of trees, and branches of such shrubs as I could find, and threw it over, and having fed it, I tied it as I did before to lead it away; but it was so tame with being hungry that I had no need to have tied it, for it followed me like a dog;

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 43 and as I continually fed it, the creature became so loving, so gentle, and so fond, that it became from that time one of my domestics also, and would never leave me afterwards. The rainy season of the autumnal equinox was now come, and I kept the 30th of September in the same solemn manner as before, being the anniversary of my landing on the island, having now been there two years, and no more prospect of being delivered than the first day I came there. I spent the whole day in humble and thankful acknowledgements of the many wonderful mercies which my solitary condition was attended with, and without which it might have been infinitely more miserable. I gave humble and hearty thanks that God had been pleased to discover to me, even that it was possible I might be more happy in this solitary condition than I should have been in a liberty of society and in all the pleasures of the world. That He could fully make up to me the deficiencies of my solitary state and the want of human society by His presence, and the communications of His grace to my soul, supporting, comforting, and encouraging me to depend upon His Providence here, and hope for His eternal presence hereafter. It was now that I began sensibly to feel how much more happy this life I now led was, with all its miserable circumstances, than the wicked, cursed, abominable life I led all the past part of my days; and now I changed both my sorrows and my joys; my very desires altered, my affections changed their gusts, and my delights were perfectly new, from what they were at my first coming, or indeed for the two years past. Before, as I walked about, either on my hunting or for viewing the country, the anguish of my soul at my condition would break out upon me on a sudden, and my very heart would die within me to think of the woods, the mountains, the deserts I was in; and how I was a prisoner locked up with the eternal bars and bolts of the ocean, in an uninhabited wilderness, without redemption. In the midst of the greatest composures of my mind, this would break out upon me like a storm and make me wring my hands and weep like a child. Sometimes it would take me in the middle of my work, and I would immediately sit down and sigh, and look upon the ground for an hour or two together; and this was still worse to me; for if I could burst out into tears or vent myself by words, it would go off, and the grief having exhausted itself would abate. But now I began to exercise myself with new thoughts; I daily read the Word of God and applied all the comforts of it to my present state. One morning, being very sad, I opened the Bible upon these words, “I will never, never leave thee, nor forsake thee”; immediately it occurred

Daniel Defoe44 that these words were to me; why else should they be directed in such a manner, just at the moment when I was mourning over my condition, as one forsaken of God and man? “Well then,” said I, “if God does not forsake me, of what ill consequence can it be, or what matters it, though the world should all forsake me; seeing on the other hand, if I had all the world and should lose the favour and blessing of God, there would be no comparison in the loss?” From this moment I began to conclude in my mind that it was possible for me to be more happy in this forsaken, solitary condition that it was probable I should ever have been in any other particular state in the world; and with this thought I was going to give thanks to God for bringing me to this place. I know not what it was, but something shocked my mind at that thought, and I durst not speak the words. “How canst thou be such a hypocrite,” said I, even audibly, “to pretend to be thankful for a condition which however thou may’st endeavour to be contented with, thou wouldst rather pray heartily to be delivered from?” So I stopped there. But though I could not say I thanked God for being there, yet I sincerely gave thanks to God for opening my eyes, by whatever afflicting providences, to see the former condition of my life, and to mourn for my wickedness, and repent. I never opened the Bible or shut it but my very soul within me blessed God for directing my friend in England, without any order of mine, to pack it up among my goods; and for assisting me afterwards to save it out of the wreck of the ship. I AM VERY SELDOM IDLE Thus, and in this disposition of mind, I began my third year; and though I have not given the reader the trouble of so particular an account of my works this year as the first, yet in general it may be observed that I was very seldom idle; but having regularly divided my time, according to the several daily employments that were before me, such as, first, my duty to God, and the reading the Scriptures, which I constantly set apart some time for thrice every day; secondly, the going abroad with my gun for food, which generally took me up three hours in every morning, when it did not rain; thirdly, the ordering, curing, preserving and cooking what I had killed or caught for my supply; these took up great part of the day; also it is to be considered that the middle of the day, when the sun was in the zenith, the violence of the heat was too great to stir out; so that about four hours in the evening was all the time

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 45 I could be supposed to work in; with this exception, that sometimes I changed my hours of hunting and working, and went to work in the morning and abroad with my gun in the afternoon. To this short time allowed for labour, I desire may be added the exceeding laboriousness of my work, the many hours which for want of tools, want of help, and want of skill, everything I did took up out of my time. For example, I was full two-and-forty days making me a board for a long shelf, which I wanted in my cave; whereas two sawyers with their tools and a saw-pit would have cut six of them out of the same tree in half a day. My case was this: it was to be a large tree which was to be cut down, because my board was to be a broad one. This tree I was three days a- cutting down, and two more cutting off the boughs, and reducing it to a log, or piece of timber. With inexpressible hacking and hewing, I reduced both the sides of it into chips, till it began to be light enough to move; then I turned it and made one side of it smooth and flat as a board from end to end; then turning that side downward, cut the other side, till I brought the plank to be about three inches thick, and smooth on both sides. Anyone may judge the labour of my hands in such a piece of work; but labour and patience carried me through that and many other things. I only observe this in particular, to show the reason why so much of my time went away with so little work, viz., that what might be a little to be done with help and tools was a vast labour and required a prodigious time to do alone and by hand. But notwithstanding this, with patience and labour I went through many things; and indeed everything that my circumstances made necessary to me to do, as will appear by what follows. I was now, in the months of November and December, expecting my crop of barley and rice. The ground I had manured or dug up for them was not great; for as I observed, my seed of each was not above the quantity of half a peck; for I had lost one whole crop by sowing in the dry season; but now my crop promised very well, when on a sudden I found I was in danger of losing it all again by enemies of several sorts, which it was scarce possible to keep from it; at first, the goats, and wild creatures which I called hares, who, tasting the sweetness of the blade, lay in it night and day, as soon as it came up, and eat it so close that it could get no time to shoot up into stalk. This I saw no remedy for, but by making an enclosure about it with a hedge, which I did with a great deal of toil; and the more, because it required speed. However, as my arable land was but small, suited to my

Daniel Defoe46 crop, I got it totally well fenced in about three weeks’ time; and shooting some of the creatures in the daytime, I set my dog to guard it in the night, tying him up to a stake at the gate, where he would stand and bark all night long; so in a little time the enemies forsook the place, and the corn grew very strong and well, and began to ripen apace. But as the beasts ruined me before, while my corn was in the blade, so the birds were as likely to ruin me now, when it was in the ear; for going along by the place to see how it throve, I saw my little crop surrounded with fowls of I know not how many sorts, who stood, as it were, watching till I should be gone. I immediately let fly among them (for I always had my gun with me). I had no sooner shot, but there rose up a little cloud of fowls, which I had not seen at all, from among the corn itself. This touched me sensibly, for I foresaw that in a few days they would devour all my hopes, that I should be starved, and never be able to raise a crop at all, and what to do I could not tell. However, I resolved not to lose my corn, if possible, though I should watch it night and day. In the first place, I went among it to see what damage was already done, and found they had spoiled a good deal of it, but that as it was yet too green for them, the loss was not so great, but that the remainder was like to be a good crop if it could be saved. I stayed by it to load my gun, and then coming away I could easily see the thieves sitting upon all the trees about me, as if they only waited till I was gone away, and the event proved it to be so; for as I walked off as if I was gone, I was no sooner out of their sight but they dropped down one by one into the corn again. I was so provoked that I could not have patience to stay till more came on, knowing that every grain that they ate now was, as it might be said, a peck-loaf to me in the consequence; but coming up to the hedge, I fired again, and killed three of them. This was what I wished for; so I took them up and served them as we serve notorious thieves in England, viz., hanged them in chains for a terror to others; it is impossible to imagine, almost, that this should have such an effect as it had; for the fowls would not only not come at the corn, but in short, they forsook all that part of the island, and I could never see a bird near the place as long as my scarecrows hung there. This I was very glad of, you may be sure, and about the latter end of December, which was our second harvest of the year, I reaped my crop. I was sadly put to it for a scythe or a sickle to cut it down, and all I could do was to make one as well as I could out of one of the broadswords, or cutlasses, which I saved among the arms out of the ship. However, as

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 47 my first crop was but small, I had no great difficulty to cut it down; in short, I reaped it my way, for I cut nothing off but the ears, and carried it away in a great basket which I had made, and so rubbed it out with my hands; and at the end of all my harvesting, I found that out of my half peck of seed I had near two bushels of rice and above two bushels and a half of barley, that is to say, by my guess, for I had no measure at that time. However, this was a great encouragement to me, and I foresaw that in time it would please God to supply me with bread. And yet here I was perplexed again, for I neither knew how to grind or make meal of my corn, or indeed how to clean it and part it; nor if made into meal, how to make bread of it; and if how to make it, yet I knew not how to bake it. These things being added to my desire of having a good quantity for store, and to secure a constant supply, I resolved not to taste any of this crop, but to preserve it all for seed against the next season, and in the meantime to employ all my study and hours of working to accomplish this great work of providing myself with corn and bread. It might be truly said that now I worked for my bread. ’Tis a little wonderful, and what I believe few people have thought much upon, viz., the strange multitude of little things necessary in the providing, producing, curing, dressing, making, and finishing this one article of bread. I, that was reduced to a mere state of nature, found this to my daily discouragement, and was made more and more sensible of it every hour, even after I had got the first handful of seed corn, which, as I have said, came up unexpectedly and indeed to a surprise. First, I had no plough to turn up the earth, no spade or shovel to dig it. Well, this I conquered by making a wooden spade, as I observed before; but this did my work in but a wooden manner; and though it cost me a great many days to make it, yet for want of iron it not only wore out the sooner, but made my work the harder, and made it be performed much worse. However, this I bore with, and was content to work it out with patience and bear with the badness of the performance. When the corn was sowed, I had no harrow but was forced to go over it myself and drag a great heavy bough of a tree over it, to scratch it, as it may be called, rather than rake or harrow it. When it was growing and grown, I have observed already how many things I wanted, to fence it, secure it, mow or reap it, cure and carry it home, thrash, part it from the chaff, and save it. Then I wanted a mill to grind it, sieves to dress it, yeast and salt to make it into bread, and an

Daniel Defoe48 oven to bake it; and yet all these things I did without, as shall be ob- served; and yet the corn was an inestimable comfort and advantage to me too. All this, as I said, made everything laborious and tedious to me, but that there was no help for; neither was my time so much loss to me, because, as I had divided it, a certain part of it was every day appointed to these works; and as I resolved to use none of the corn for bread till I had a greater quantity by me, I had the next six months to apply myself wholly by labour and invention to furnish myself with utensils proper for the performing all the operations necessary for the making the corn (when I had it) fit for my use. But first I was to prepare more land, for I had now seed enough to sow above an acre of ground. Before I did this, I had a week’s work at least to make me a spade, which when it was done was but a sorry one indeed, and very heavy, and required double labour to work with it; however, I went through that, and sowed my seed in two large flat pieces of ground, as near my house as I could find them to my mind, and fenced them in with a good hedge, the stakes of which were all cut of that wood which I had set before, and knew it would grow; so that in one year’s time I knew I should have a quick or living hedge that would want but little repair. This work was not so little as to take me up less than three months, because great part of that time was of the wet season, when I could not go abroad. Within doors, that is, when it rained, and I could not go out, I found employment on the following occasions; always observing, that all the while I was at work I diverted myself with talking to my parrot and teaching him to speak, and I quickly learned [taught] him to know his own name and at last to speak it out pretty loud, “Poll,” which was the first word I ever heard spoken in the island by any mouth but my own. This therefore was not my work, but an assistant to my work, for now, as I said, I had a great employment upon my hands, as follows, viz., I had long studied, by some means or other, to make myself some earthen vessels, which indeed I wanted sorely, but knew not where to come at them. However, considering the heat of the climate, I did not doubt but if I could find out any such clay, I might botch up some such pot, as might, being dried in the sun, be hard enough and strong enough to bear handling, and to hold anything that was dry, and required to be kept so; and as this was necessary in the preparing corn, meal, etc., which was the thing I was upon, I resolved to make some as large as I could, and fit only to stand like jars to hold what should be put into them. It would make the reader pity me, or rather laugh at me, to tell how

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 49 many awkward ways I took to raise this paste; what odd, misshapen, ugly things I made; how many of them fell in, and how many fell out, the clay not being stiff enough to bear its own weight; how many cracked by the overviolent heat of the sun, being set out too hastily; and how many fell in pieces with only removing, as well before as after they were dried; and in a word, how after having laboured hard to find the clay, to dig it, to temper it, to bring it home and work it, I could not make above two large earthen ugly things, I cannot call them jars, in about two months’ labour. However, as the sun baked these two very dry and hard, I lifted them very gently up, and set them down again in two great wicker baskets, which I had made on purpose for them, that they might not break; and as between the pot and the basket there was a little room to spare, I stuffed it full of the rice and barley straw, and these two pots being to stand always dry, I thought would hold my dry corn, and perhaps the meal when the corn was bruised. Though I miscarried so much in my design for large pots, yet I made several smaller things with better success; such as little round pots, flat dishes, pitchers, and pipkins, and anything my hand turned to, and the heat of the sun baked them strangely hard. But all this would not answer my end, which was to get an earthen pot to hold what was liquid, and bear the fire, which none of these could do. It happened after some time, making a pretty large fire for cooking my meat, when I went to put it out after I had done with it, I found a broken piece of one of my earthenware vessels in the fire, burnt as hard as a stone, and red as a tile. I was agreeably surprised to see it, and said to myself that certainly they might be made to burn whole, if they would burn broken. This set me to studying how to order my fire, so as to make it burn me some pots. I had no notion of a kiln such as the potters burn in, or of glazing them with lead, though I had some lead to do it with; but I placed three large pipkins and two or three pots in a pile one upon another and placed my firewood all round it with a great heap of embers under them; I plied the fire with fresh fuel round the outside and upon the top, till I saw the pots in the inside red hot quite through, and observed that they did not crack at all; when I saw them clear red, I let them stand in that heat about five or six hours, till I found one of them, though it did not crack, did melt or run, for the sand which was mixed with the clay melted by the violence of the heat, and would have run into glass if I had gone on; so I slacked my fire gradually,

Daniel Defoe50 till the pots began to abate of the red colour, and watching them all night, that I might not let the fire abate too fast, in the morning I had three very good, I will not say handsome, pipkins, and two other earthen pots, as hard burnt as could be desired; and one of them perfectly glazed with the running of the sand. After this experiment, I need not say that I wanted no sort of earthenware for my use; but I must needs say, as to the shapes of them, they were very indifferent, as anyone may suppose, when I had no way of making them, but as the children make dirt pies, or as a woman would make pies that never learned to raise paste. No joy at a thing of so mean a nature was ever equal to mine, when I found I had made an earthen pot that would bear the fire; and I had hardly patience to stay till they were cold, before I set one upon the fire again, with some water in it, to boil me some meat, which it did admirably well; and with a piece of a kid I made some very good broth, though I wanted oatmeal, and several other ingredients requisite to make it so good as I would have had it been. My next concern was to get me a stone mortar to stamp or beat some corn in; for as to the mill, there was no thought at arriving to that perfection of art with one pair of hands. To supply this want I was at a great loss; for of all trades in the world I was as perfectly unqualified for a stone-cutter as for any whatever; neither had I any tools to go about it with. I spent many a day to find out a great stone big enough to cut hollow and make fit for a mortar, and could find none at all, except what was in the solid rock, and which I had no way to dig or cut out; nor indeed were the rocks in the island of hardness sufficient, but were all of a sandy crumbling stone, which would neither bear the weight of a heavy pestle or would break the corn without filling it with sand; so after a great deal of time lost in searching for a stone, I gave it over, and resolved to look out for a great block of hard wood, which I found indeed much easier; and getting one as big as I had strength to stir, I rounded it, and formed it in the outside with my axe and hatchet, and then with the help of fire, and infinite labour, made a hollow place in it, as the Indians in Brazil make their canoes. After this, I made a great heavy pestle or beater, of the wood called the iron-wood, and this I prepared and laid by against I had my next crop of corn, when I proposed to myself to grind, or rather pound, my corn into meal, to make my bread. My next difficulty was to make a sieve, or searce, to dress my meal and to part it from the bran and the husk, without which I did not see it possible I could have any bread. This was a most difficult thing, so

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 51 much as but to think on; for to be sure I had nothing like the necessary thing to make it; I mean fine thin canvas or stuff, to searce the meal through. And here I was at a full stop for many months; nor did I really know what to do; linen I had none left, but what was mere rags; I had goats’ hair, but neither knew I how to weave it or spin it; and had I known how, here was no tools to work it with; all the remedy that I found for this was, that at last I did remember I had among the seamen’s clothes which were saved out of the ship, some neckcloths of calico or muslin; and with some pieces of these, I made three small sieves, but proper enough for the work; and thus I made shift for some years. How I did afterwards, I shall show in its place. The baking part was the next thing to be considered and how I should make bread when I came to have corn; for, first, I had no yeast; as to that part, as there was no supplying the want, so I did not concern myself much about it; but for an oven I was indeed in great pain. At length I found out an experiment for that also, which was this: I made some earthen vessels very broad, but not deep; that is to say, about two foot diameter, and not above nine inches deep; these I burned in the fire, as I had done the other, and laid them by; and when I wanted to bake, I made a great fire upon my hearth, which I had paved with some square tiles of my own making and burning also; but I should not call them square. When the firewood was burned pretty much into embers, or live coals, I drew them forward upon this hearth, so as to cover it all over, and there I let them lie, till the hearth was very hot; then sweeping away all the embers, I set down my loaf, or loaves, and whelming down the earthen pot upon them, drew the embers all round the outside of the pot, to keep in, and add to the heat; and thus, as well as in the best oven in the world, I baked my barley loaves, and became in little time a mere pastry-cook into the bargain; for I made myself several cakes of the rice and puddings; indeed I made no pies, neither had I anything to put into them, supposing I had, except the flesh either of fowls or goats. It need not be wondered at, if all these things took me up most part of the third year of my abode here; for it is to be observed that in the intervals of these things I had my new harvest and husbandry to manage; for I reaped my corn in its season and carried it home as well as I could, and laid it up in the ear, in my large baskets, till I had time to rub it out; for I had no floor to thrash it on, or instrument to thrash it with. And now indeed my stock of corn increasing, I really wanted to build my barns bigger. I wanted a place to lay it up in; for the increase of the

Daniel Defoe52 corn now yielded me so much that I had of the barley about twenty bushels, and of the rice as much or more; insomuch that now I resolved to begin to use it freely, for my bread had been quite gone a great while; also I resolved to see what quantity would be sufficient for me a whole year, and to sow but once a year. Upon the whole, I found that the forty bushels of barley and rice was much more than I could consume in a year; so I resolved to sow just the same quantity every year that I sowed the last, in hopes that such a quantity would fully provide me with bread, etc. All the while these things were doing, you may be sure my thoughts ran many times upon the prospect of land which I had seen from the other side of the island, and I was not without secret wishes that I were on shore there, fancying that seeing the mainland, and an inhabited country, I might find some way or other to convey myself farther, and perhaps at last find some means of escape. But all this while I made no allowance for the dangers of such a condition, and how I might fall into the hands of savages, and perhaps such as I might have reason to think far worse than the lions and tigers of Africa. That if I once came into their power, I should run a hazard more than a thousand to one of being killed and perhaps of being eaten; for I had heard that the people of the Caribbean coasts were cannibals, or man-eaters, and I knew by the latitude that I could not be far off from that shore. That suppose they were not cannibals, yet that they might kill me, as many Europeans who had fallen into their hands had been served, even when they had been ten or twenty together; much more I, that was but one, and could make little or no defence. All these things, I say, which I ought to have considered well of, and did cast up in my thoughts afterwards, yet took up none of my apprehensions at first; but my head ran mightily upon the thought of getting over to the shore. Now I wished for my boy Xury, and the longboat with the shoulder- of-mutton sail with which I sailed above a thousand miles on the coast of Africa; but this was in vain. Then I thought I would go and look at our ship’s boat, which, as I have said, was blown up upon the shore a great way in the storm, when we were first cast away. She lay almost where she did at first, but not quite; and was turned by the force of the waves and the winds, almost bottom upward against a high ridge of beachy rough sand; but no water about her as before. If I had had hands to have refitted her and to have launched her into the water, the boat would have done well enough, and I might have

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 53 gone back into Brazil with her easily enough; but I might have foreseen that I could no more turn her and set her upright upon her bottom than I could remove the island. However, I went to the woods and cut levers and rollers, and brought them to the boat, resolved to try what I could do; suggesting to myself that if I could but turn her down, I might easily repair the damage she had received, and she would be a very good boat, and I might go to sea in her very easily. I spared no pains, indeed, in this piece of fruitless toil, and spent, I think, three or four weeks about it; at last finding it impossible to heave it up with my little strength, I fell to digging away the sand to undermine it, and so to make it fall down, setting pieces of wood to thrust and guide it right in the fall. But when I had done this, I was unable to stir it up again, or to get under it, much less to move it forward towards the water; so I was forced to give it over; and yet, though I gave over the hopes of the boat, my desire to venture over for the main increased, rather than decreased, as the means for it seemed impossible. I MAKE MYSE LF A CANOE This at length put me upon thinking whether it was not possible to make myself a canoe or piragua, such as the natives of those climates make, even without tools, or, as I might say, without hands, viz., of the trunk of a great tree. This I not only thought possible, but easy, and pleased myself extremely with the thoughts of making it, and with my having much more convenience for it than any of the Negroes or Indians; but not at all considering the particular inconveniences which I lay under, more than the Indians did, viz., want of hands to move it, when it was made, into the water, a difficulty much harder for me to surmount than all the consequences of want of tools could be to them; for what was it to me, that when I had chosen a vast tree in the woods, I might with great trouble cut it down, if after I might be able with my tools to hew and dub the outside into the proper shape of a boat, and burn or cut out the inside to make it hollow, so to make a boat of it—if after all this, I must leave it just there where I found it, and was not able to launch it into the water? One would have thought I could not have had the least reflection upon my mind of my circumstance, while I was making this boat; but I should have immediately thought how I should get it into the sea; but my thoughts were so intent upon my voyage over the sea in it that I never once con-

Daniel Defoe54 sidered how I should get it off of the land; and was really in its own nature more easy for me to guide it over forty-five miles of sea, than about forty-five fathom of land, where it lay, to set it afloat in the water. I went to work upon this boat the most like a fool that ever man did, who had any of his senses awake. I pleased myself with the design, without determining whether I was ever able to undertake it; not but that the difficulty of launching my boat came often into my head; but I put a stop to my own inquiries into it, by this foolish answer which I gave myself, “Let’s first make it; I’ll warrant I’ll find some way or other to get it along, when ’tis done.” This was a most preposterous method; but the eagerness of my fancy prevailed, and to work I went. I felled a cedar tree. I question much whether Solomon ever had such a one for the building of the Temple at Jerusalem. It was five foot ten inches diameter at the lower part next the stump, and four foot eleven inches diameter at the end of twenty-two foot, after which it lessened for a while, and then parted into branches. It was not without infinite labour that I felled this tree. I was twenty days hacking and hewing at it at the bottom; I was fourteen more getting the branches and limbs, and the vast spreading head of it cut off, which I hacked and hewed through with axe and hatchet, and inexpressible labour. After this, it cost me a month to shape it and dub it to a proportion, and to something like the bottom of a boat, that it might swim upright as it ought to do. It cost me near three months more to clear the inside, and work it out so as to make an exact boat of it. This I did indeed without fire, by mere mallet and chisel, and by the dint of hard labour, till I had brought it to be a very handsome piragua and big enough to have carried six and twenty men, and consequently big enough to have carried me and all my cargo. When I had gone through this work, I was extremely delighted with it. The boat was really much bigger than I ever saw a canoe, or piragua, that was made of one tree, in my life. Many a weary stroke it had cost, you may be sure; and there remained nothing but to get it into the water; and had I gotten it into the water, I make no question but I should have begun the maddest voyage and the most unlikely to be performed that ever was undertaken. But all my devices to get it into the water failed me; though they cost me infinite labour too. It lay about one hundred yards from the water, and not more. But the first inconvenience was, it was uphill towards the creek. Well, to take away this discouragement, I resolved to dig into the surface of the earth, and so make a declivity. This I began,

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 55 and it cost me a prodigious deal of pains; but who grudges pains, that have their deliverance in view? But when this was worked through, and this difficulty managed, it was still much at one; for I could no more stir the canoe than I could the other boat. Then I measured the distance of ground, and resolved to cut a dock, or canal, to bring the water up to the canoe, seeing I could not bring the canoe down to the water. Well, I began this work, and when I began to enter into it and calculate how deep it was to be dug, how broad, how the stuff to be thrown out, I found that by the number of hands I had, being none but my own, it must have been ten or twelve years before I should have gone through with it; but the shore lay high, so that at the upper end it must have been at least twenty foot deep; so at length, though with great reluctancy, I gave this attempt over also. This grieved me heartily, and now I saw, though too late, the folly of beginning a work before we count the cost, and before we judge rightly of our own strength to go through with it. In the middle of this work I finished my fourth year in this place, and kept my anniversary with the same devotion and with as much comfort as ever before; for by a constant study and serious application of the Word of God, and by the assistance of His grace, I gained a different knowledge from what I had before. I entertained different notions of things. I looked now upon the world as a thing remote, which I had nothing to do with, no expectation from, and, indeed, no desires about. In a word, I had nothing indeed to do with it, nor was ever like to have; so I thought it looked as we may perhaps look upon it hereafter, viz., as a place I had lived in but was come out of it; and well might I say, as Father Abraham to Dives, “Between me and thee is a great gulf fixed.” In the first place, I was removed from all the wickedness of the world here. I had neither the lust of the flesh, the lust of the eye, or the pride of life. I had nothing to covet; for I had all that I was now capable of enjoying. I was lord of the whole manor; or if I pleased, I might call myself king, or emperor over the whole country which I had possession of. There were no rivals. I had no competitor, none to dispute sovereignty or command with me. I might have raised shiploadings of corn; but I had no use for it; so I let as little grow as I thought enough for my occasion. I had tortoise or turtles enough; but now and then one was as much as I could put to any use. I had timber enough to have built a fleet of ships. I had grapes enough to have made wine, or to have cured into raisins, to have loaded that fleet, when they had been built. But all I could make use of was all that was valuable. I had enough to

Daniel Defoe56 eat, and to supply my wants, and what was all the rest to me? If I killed more flesh than I could eat, the dog must eat it, or the vermin. If I sowed more corn than I could eat, it must be spoiled. The trees that I cut down were lying to rot on the ground. I could make no more use of them than for fuel; and that I had no occasion for but to dress my food. In a word, the nature and experience of things dictated to me upon just reflection that all the good things of this world are no farther good to us than they are for our use; and that whatever we may heap up indeed to give others, we enjoy just as much as we can use, and no more. The most covetous griping miser in the world would have been cured of the vice of covetousness, if he had been in my case; for I possessed infinitely more than I knew what to do with. I had no room for desire, except it was of things which I had not, and they were but trifles, though indeed of great use to me. I had, as I hinted before, a parcel of money, as well gold as silver, about thirty-six pounds sterling. Alas! There the nasty, sorry, useless stuff lay; I had no manner of business for it; and I often thought with myself that I would have given a handful of it for a gross of tobacco pipes or for a hand mill to grind my corn; nay, I would have given it all for sixpennyworth of turnip and carrot seed out of England, or for a handful of peas and beans and a bottle of ink. As it was, I had not the least advantage by it or benefit from it; but there it lay in a drawer and grew mouldy with the damp of the cave in the wet season; and if I had had the drawer full of diamonds, it had been the same case; and they had been of no manner of value to me because of no use. I had now brought my state of life to be much easier in itself than it was at first and much easier to my mind, as well as to my body. I frequently sat down to my meat with thankfulness, and admired the hand of God’s providence, which had thus spread my table in the wilderness. I learned to look more upon the bright side of my condition and less upon the dark side; and to consider what I enjoyed rather than what I wanted; and this gave me sometimes such secret comforts that I cannot express them; and which I take notice of here, to put those discontented people in mind of it who cannot enjoy comfortably what God has given them because they see and covet something that He has not given them. All our discontents about what we want appeared to me to spring from the want of thankfulness for what we have. Another reflection was of great use to me, and doubtless would be so to anyone that should fall into such distress as mine was; and this was to compare my present condition with what I at first expected it should be; nay, with what it would certainly have been, if the good providence of

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 57 God had not wonderfully ordered the ship to be cast up nearer to the shore, where I not only could come at her but could bring what I got out of her to the shore for my relief and comfort; without which, I had wanted for tools to work, weapons for defence, or gunpowder and shot for getting my food. I spent whole hours, I may say whole days, in representing to myself, in the most lively colours, how I must have acted if I had got nothing out of the ship; how I could not have so much as got any food, except fish and turtles; and that as it was long before I found any of them, I must have perished first; that I should have lived, if I had not perished, like a mere savage; that if I had killed a goat, or a fowl, by any contrivance, I had no way to flay or open them, or part the flesh from the skin and the bowels, or to cut it up, but must gnaw it with my teeth and pull it with my claws like a beast. These reflections made me very sensible of the goodness of Providence to me, and very thankful for my present condition, with all its hardships and misfortunes. And this part also I cannot but recommend to the reflection of those who are apt in their misery to say, “Is any affliction like mine?” Let them consider how much worse the cases of some people are, and their case might have been, if Providence had thought fit. I had another reflection which assisted me also to comfort my mind with hopes; and this was comparing my present condition with what I had deserved, and had therefore reason to expect from the hand of Providence. I had lived a dreadful life, perfectly destitute of the knowledge and fear of God. I had been well instructed by father and mother; neither had they been wanting to me in their early endeavours to infuse a religious awe of God into my mind, a sense of my duty, and of what the nature and end of my being required of me. But alas! falling early into the seafaring life, which of all the lives is the most destitute of the fear of God, though His terrors are always before them; I say, falling early into the seafaring life, and into seafaring company, all that little sense of religion which I had entertained was laughed out of me by my messmates, by a hardened despising of dangers, and the views of death, which grew habitual to me, by my long absence from all manner of opportunities to converse with anything but what was like myself or to hear anything that was good, or tended towards it. So void was I of everything that was good, or of the least sense of what I was or was to be, that in the greatest deliverances I enjoyed, such as my escape from Sallee, my being taken up by the Portuguese master of the ship, my being planted so well in Brazil, my receiving the

Daniel Defoe58 cargo from England, and the like, I never had once the word, “Thank God,” so much as on my mind, or in my mouth; nor in the greatest distress had I so much as a thought to pray to Him; or so much as to say, “Lord, have mercy upon me”; no, nor to mention the name of God, unless it was to swear by and blaspheme it. I had terrible reflections upon my mind for many months, as I have already observed, on the account of my wicked and hardened life past; and when I looked about me and considered what particular providences had attended me since my coming into this place, and how God had dealt bountifully with me; had not only punished me less than my iniquity had deserved, but had so plentifully provided for me; this gave me great hopes that my repentance was accepted, and that God had yet mercy in store for me. With these reflections I worked my mind up, not only to resignation to the will of God in the present disposition of my circumstances, but even to a sincere thankfulness for my condition; and that I, who was yet a living man, ought not to complain, seeing I had not the due punishment of my sins; that I enjoyed so many mercies which I had no reason to have expected in that place; that I ought never more to repine at my condition, but to rejoice and to give daily thanks for that daily bread which nothing but a crowd of wonders could have brought. That I ought to consider I had been fed even by a miracle, even as great as that of feeding Elijah by ravens; nay, by a long series of miracles; and that I could hardly have named a place in the unhabitable part of the world where I could have been cast more to my advantage. A place, where as I had no society, which was my affliction on one hand, so I found no ravenous beasts, no furious wolves or tigers to threaten my life; no venomous creatures or poisonous which I might feed on to my hurt, no savages to murder and devour me. In a word, as my life was a life of sorrow one way, so it was a life of mercy another; and I wanted nothing to make it a life of comfort, but to be able to make my sense of God’s goodness to me, and care over me in this condition, be my daily consolation; and after I did make a just improvement of these things, I went away and was no more sad. I had now been here so long that many things which I brought on shore for my help were either quite gone, or very much wasted and near spent. My ink, as I observed, had been gone for some time, all but a very little, which I eked out with water a little and a little, till it was so pale it scarce left any appearance of black upon the paper. As long as it lasted I

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 59 made use of it to minute down the days of the month on which any remarkable thing happened to me; and first by casting up times past, I remember that there was a strange concurrence of days in the various providences which befell me, and which, if I had been superstitiously inclined to observe days as fatal or fortunate, I might have had reason to have looked upon with a great deal of curiosity. First, I had observed that the same day that I broke away from my father and my friends and ran away to Hull in order to go to sea, the same day afterwards I was taken by the Sallee man-of-war and made a slave. The same day of the year that I escaped out of the wreck of that ship in Yarmouth Roads, that same day-year afterwards I made my escape from Sallee in the boat. The same day of the year I was born on, viz., the 30th of September, that same day I had my life so miraculously saved twenty-six years after, when I was cast on shore in this island; so that my wicked life and my solitary life begun both on a day. The next thing to my ink’s being wasted was that of my bread, I mean the biscuit which I brought out of the ship. This I had husbanded to the last degree, allowing myself but one cake of bread a day for above a year; and yet I was quite without bread for near a year before I got any corn of my own; and great reason I had to be thankful that I had any at all, the getting it being, as has been already observed, next to miraculous. My clothes began to decay too mightily. As to linen, I had none a good while, except some checkered shirts which I found in the chests of the other seamen, and which I carefully preserved, because many times I could bear no other clothes on but a shirt; and it was a very great help to me that I had among all the men’s clothes of the ship almost three dozen of shirts. There were also several thick watch coats of the seamen’s, which were left indeed, but they were too hot to wear; and though it is true that the weather was so violent hot that there was no need of clothes, yet I could not go quite naked; no, though I had been inclined to it, which I was not, nor could abide the thoughts of it, though I was all alone. The reason why I could not go quite naked was, I could not bear the heat of the sun so well when quite naked, as with some clothes on; nay, the very heat frequently blistered my skin; whereas with a shirt on, the air itself made some motion, and whistling under that shirt, was twofold cooler than without it. No more could I ever bring myself to go out in the heat of the sun without a cap or a hat; the heat of the sun, beating with such violence as it does in that place, would give me the headache pres-

Daniel Defoe60 ently, by darting so directly on my head, without a cap or hat on, so that I could not bear it; whereas if I put on my hat, it would presently go away. Upon those views I began to consider about putting the few rags I had, which I called clothes, into some order; I had worn out all the waistcoats I had, and my business was now to try if I could not make jackets out of the great watch coats which I had by me, and with such other materials as I had; so I set to work a-tailoring, or rather indeed a- botching, for I made most piteous work of it. However, I made shift to make two or three new waistcoats, which I hoped would serve me a great while; as for breeches or drawers, I made but a very sorry shift indeed, till afterwards. I have mentioned that I saved the skins of all the creatures that I killed, I mean four-footed ones, and I had hung them up stretched out with sticks in the sun, by which means some of them were so dry and hard that they were fit for little, but others it seems were very useful. The first thing I made of these was a great cap for my head, with the hair on the outside, to shoot off the rain; and this I performed so well, that after this I made me a suit of clothes wholly of these skins, that is to say, a waistcoat, and breeches open at knees, and both loose, for they were rather wanting to keep me cool than to keep me warm. I must not omit to acknowledge that they were wretchedly made; for if I was a bad carpenter, I was a worse tailor. However, they were such as I made very good shift with; and when I was abroad, if it happened to rain, the hair of my waistcoat and cap being outermost, I was kept very dry. After this I spent a great deal of time and pains to make me an umbrella; I was indeed in great want of one, and had a great mind to make one; I had seen them made in Brazil, where they are very useful in the great heats which are there. And I felt the heats every jot as great here, and greater too, being nearer the equinox; besides, as I was obliged to be much abroad, it was a most useful thing to me, as well for the rains as the heats. I took a world of pains at it, and was a great while before I could make anything likely to hold; nay, after I thought I had hit the way, I spoiled two or three before I made one to my mind; but at last I made one that answered indifferently well. The main difficulty I found was to make it to let down. I could make it to spread, but if it did not let down too and draw in, it was not portable for me any way but just over my head, which would not do. However, at last, as I said, I made one to answer, and covered it with skins, the hair upwards, so that it cast off the rains like a penthouse and kept off the sun so effectually, that I could

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 61 walk out in the hottest of the weather with greater advantage than I could before in the coolest, and when I had no need of it, could close it and carry it under my arm. Thus I lived mighty comfortably, my mind being entirely composed by resigning to the will of God and throwing myself wholly upon the disposal of His Providence. This made my life better than sociable; for when I began to regret the want of conversation, I would ask myself whether thus conversing mutually with my own thoughts, and as I hope I may say, with even God Himself, by ejaculations, was not better than the utmost enjoyment of human society in the world. [Crusoe makes a small boat. He sets sail and is almost swept away by currents. He captures some goats.] How mercifully can our great Creator treat His creatures, even in those conditions in which they seemed to be overwhelmed in destruction! How can He sweeten the bitterest providences, and give us cause to praise Him for dungeons and prisons! What a table was here spread for me in a wilderness, where I saw nothing at first but to perish for hunger! It would have made a stoic smile to have seen me and my little family sit down to dinner; there was my majesty, the prince and lord of the whole island: I had the lives of all my subjects at my absolute command. I could hang, draw, give liberty, and take it away, and no rebels among all my subjects. Then to see how like a king I dined, too, all alone, attended by my servants; Poll, as if he had been my favourite, was the only person permitted to talk to me. My dog, who was now grown very old and crazy, and had found no species to multiply his kind upon, sat always at my right hand; and two cats, one on one side the table and one on the other, expecting now and then a bit from my hand, as a mark of special favour. But these were not the two cats which I brought on shore at first, for they were both of them dead, and had been interred near my habitation by my own hand; but one of them having multiplied by I know not what kind of creature, these were two which I had preserved tame, whereas the rest ran wild in the woods, and became indeed troublesome to me at last; for they would often come into my house, and plunder me too, till at last I was obliged to shoot them, and did kill a great many; at length they left me with this attendance; and in this plentiful manner I lived; neither could I be said to want anything but society, and of that in some time after this I was like to have too much. I was something impatient, as I have observed, to have the use of my boat, though very loath to run any more hazards; and therefore some-

Daniel Defoe62 times I sat contriving ways to get her about the island, and at other times I sat myself down contented enough without her. But I had a strange uneasiness in my mind to go down to the point of the island, where, as I have said, in my last ramble I went up the hill to see how the shore lay and how the current set, that I might see what I had to do. This inclination increased upon me every day, and at length I resolved to travel thither by land; following the edge of the shore I did so. But had anyone in England been to meet such a man as I was, it must either have frighted them or raised a great deal of laughter; and as I frequently stood still to look at myself, I could not but smile at the notion of my travelling through Yorkshire with such an equipage and in such a dress. Be pleased to take a sketch of my figure as follows: I had a great high shapeless cap, made of a goat’s skin, with a flap hanging down behind, as well to keep the sun from me as to shoot the rain off from running into my neck; nothing being so hurtful in these climates as the rain upon the flesh under the clothes. I had a short jacket of goatskin, the skirts coming down to about the middle of my thighs; and a pair of openkneed breeches of the same; the breeches were made of the skin of an old he-goat, whose hair hung down such a length on either side that, like pantaloons, it reached to the middle of my legs; stockings and shoes I had none, but I had made me a pair of somethings, I scarce know what to call them, like buskins, to flap over my legs, and lace on either side like spatterdashes; but of a most barbarous shape, as indeed were all the rest of my clothes. I had on a broad belt of goatskin dried, which I drew together with two thongs of the same, instead of buckles, and in a kind of a frog on either side of this, instead of a sword and a dagger, hung a little saw and a hatchet, one on one side, one on the other. I had another belt, not so broad, and fastened in the same manner, which hung over my shoulder; and at the end of it, under my left arm, hung two pouches, both made of goatskin too; in one of which hung my powder, in the other my shot. At my back I carried my basket, on my shoulder my gun, and over my head a great clumsy ugly goatskin umbrella, but which, after all, was the most necessary thing I had about me, next to my gun. As for my face, the colour of it was really not so mulatto-like as one might expect from a man not at all careful of it and living within nine or ten degrees of the equinox. My beard I had once suffered to grow till it was about a quarter of a yard long; but as I had both scissors and razors sufficient, I had cut it pretty short, except what grew on my upper lip, which I had trimmed into a large pair of Mahometan whiskers, such as I had seen worn by some

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 63 Turks whom I saw at Sallee; for the Moors did not wear such, though the Turks did; of these mustachios, or whiskers, I will not say they were long enough to hang my hat upon them, but they were of a length and shape monstrous enough and such as in England would have passed for frightful. But all this is by the by; for as to my figure, I had so few to observe me that it was of no matter of consequence; so I say no more to that part. In this kind of figure I went my new journey, and was out five or six days. I travelled first along the sea-shore, directly to the place where I first brought my boat to an anchor, to get up upon the rocks; and having no boat now to take care of, I went over the land a nearer way to the same height that I was upon before; when, looking forward to the point of the rocks which lay out, and which I was obliged to double with my boat, as I said above, I was surprised to see the sea all smooth and quiet, no rippling, no motion, no current, any more there than in other places. I was at a strange loss to understand this, and resolved to spend some time in the observing it, to see if nothing from the sets of the tide had occasioned it; but I was presently convinced how it was, viz., that the tide of ebb setting from the west and joining with the current of waters from some great river on the shore must be the occasion of this current; and that according as the wind blew more forcibly from the west or from the north, this current came near, or went farther from the shore; for waiting thereabouts till evening, I went up to the rock again, and then the tide of the ebb being made, I plainly saw the current again as before, only that it ran further off, being near half a league from the shore; whereas in my case it set close upon the shore, and hurried me and my canoe along with it, which at another time it would not have done. This observation convinced me that I had nothing to do but to observe the ebbing and the flowing of the tide, and I might very easily bring my boat about the island again. But when I began to think of putting it in practice, I had such a terror upon my spirits at the remembrance of the danger I had been in that I could not think of it again with any patience; but on the contrary, I took up another resolution, which was more safe, though more laborious; and this was that I would build, or rather make, me another piragua, or canoe; and so have one for one side of the island and one for the other. You are to understand that now I had, as I may call it, two plantations in the island; one my little fortification or tent, with the wall about it under the rock, with the cave behind me, which by this time I had enlarged into several apartments, or caves, one within another. One of

Daniel Defoe64 these, which was the driest and largest, and had a door out beyond my wall of fortification, that is to say, beyond where my wall joined to the rock, was all filled up with the large earthen pots, of which I have given an account, and with fourteen or fifteen great baskets, which would hold five or six bushels each, where I laid up my stores of provision, especially my corn, some in the ear cut off short from the straw, and the other rubbed out with my hand. As for my wall, made, as before, with long stakes, or piles, those piles grew all like trees, and were by this time grown so big and spread so very much that there was not the least appearance to anyone’s view of any habitation behind them. Near this dwelling of mine, but a little farther within the land and upon lower ground, lay my two pieces of corn ground, which I kept duly cultivated and sowed, and which duly yielded me their harvest in its season; and whenever I had occasion for more corn, I had more land adjoining as fit as that. Besides this, I had my country seat, and I had now a tolerable plantation there also; for first, I had my little bower, as I called it, which I kept in repair; that is to say, I kept the hedge which circled it in, constantly fitted up to its usual height, the ladder standing always in the inside; I kept the trees, which at first were no more than my stakes, but were now grown very firm and tall; I kept them always so cut that they might spread and grow thick and wild, and make the more agreeable shade, which they did effectually to my mind. In the middle of this I had my tent always standing, being a piece of a sail spread over poles set up for that purpose, and which never wanted any repair or renewing; and under this I had made me a squab, or couch, with the skins of the creatures I had killed and with other soft things, and a blanket laid on them such as belonged to our sea-bedding, which I had saved, and a great watch coat to cover me; and here, whenever I had occasion to be absent from my chief seat, I took up my country habitation. Adjoining to this I had my enclosures for my cattle, that is to say, my goats. And as I had taken an inconceivable deal of pains to fence and enclose this ground, so I was so uneasy to see it kept entire, lest the goats should break through, that I never left off till with infinite labour I had struck the outside of the hedge so full of small stakes, and so near to one another, that it was rather a pale than a hedge, and there was scarce room to put a hand through between them, which afterwards, when those stakes grew, as they all did in the next rainy season, made the enclosure strong, like a wall, indeed stronger than any wall.

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 65 This will testify for me that I was not idle, and that I spared no pains to bring to pass whatever appeared necessary for my comfortable support; for I considered the keeping up a breed of tame creatures thus at my hand would be a living magazine of flesh, milk, butter, and cheese for me as long as I lived in the place, if it were to be forty years, and that keeping them in my reach depended entirely upon my perfecting my enclosures to such a degree that I might be sure of keeping them together; which by this method indeed I so effectually secured that when these little stakes began to grow, I had planted them so very thick, I was forced to pull some of them up again. In this place also I had my grapes growing, which I principally depended on for my winter store of raisins, and which I never failed to preserve very carefully, as the best and most agreeable dainty of my whole diet; and indeed they were not agreeable only, but physical, wholesome, nourishing, and refreshing to the last degree. As this was also about halfway between my other habitation and the place where I had laid up my boat, I generally stayed and lay here in my way thither; for I used frequently to visit my boat, and I kept all things about or belonging to her in very good order; sometimes I went out in her to divert myself, but no more hazardous voyages would I go, nor scarce ever above a stone’s cast or two from the shore, I was so apprehensive of being hurried out of my knowledge again by the currents, or winds, or any other accident. But now I come to a new scene of my life. I FIND THE PRINT OF A MAN’S NAKED FOOT It happened one day about noon, going towards my boat, I was exceedingly surprised with the print of a man’s naked foot on the shore, which was very plain to be seen in the sand. I stood like one thunderstruck, or as if I had seen an apparition; I listened, I looked round me, I could hear nothing, nor see anything; I went up to a rising ground to look farther; I went up the shore and down the shore, but it was all one, I could see no other impression but that one; I went to it again to see if there were any more, and to observe if it might not be my fancy; but there was no room for that, for there was exactly the very print of a foot, toes, heel, and every part of a foot; how it came thither I knew not, nor could in the least imagine. But after innumerable fluttering thoughts, like a man perfectly confused and out of myself, I came home to my fortification, not feeling, as we say, the ground I went on, but terrified to the last

Daniel Defoe66 degree, looking behind me at every two or three steps, mistaking every bush and tree, and fancying every stump at a distance to be a man; nor is it possible to describe how many various shapes affrighted imagination represented things to me in; how many wild ideas were found every moment in my fancy, and what strange, unaccountable whimsies came into my thoughts by the way. When I came to my castle, for so I think I called it ever after this, I fled into it like one pursued; whether I went over by the ladder, as first contrived, or went in at the hole in the rock, which I called a door, I cannot remember; no, nor could I remember the next morning; for never frighted hare fled to cover, or fox to earth, with more terror of mind than I to this retreat. I slept none that night; the farther I was from the occasion of my fright, the greater my apprehensions were; which is something contrary to the nature of such things, and especially to the usual practice of all creatures in fear. But I was so embarrassed with my own frightful ideas of the thing that I formed nothing but dismal imaginations to myself, even though I was now a great way off it. Sometimes I fancied it must be the Devil; and reason joined in with me upon this supposition. For how should any other thing in human shape come into the place? Where was the vessel that brought them? What marks were there of any other footsteps? And how was it possible a man should come there? But then to think that Satan should take human shape upon him in such a place where there could be no manner of occasion for it, but to leave the print of his foot behind him, and that even for no purpose too (for he could not be sure I should see it); this was an amusement the other way. I considered that the Devil might have found out abundance of other ways to have terrified me than this of the single print of a foot. That as I lived quite on the other side of the island, he would never have been so simple to leave a mark in a place where it was ten thousand to one whether I should ever see it or not, and in the sand too, which the first surge of the sea upon a high wind would have defaced entirely. All this seemed inconsistent with the thing itself, and with all the notions we usually entertain of the subtlety of the Devil. Abundance of such things as these assisted to argue me out of all apprehensions of its being the Devil. And I presently concluded then that it must be some more dangerous creature, viz., that it must be some of the savages of the mainland over against me, who had wandered out to sea in their canoes, and either driven by the currents or by contrary winds, had made the island; and had been on shore, but were gone away again to

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 67 sea, being as loath, perhaps, to have stayed in this desolate island as I would have been to have had them. While these reflections were rolling upon my mind, I was very thankful in my thoughts that I was so happy as not to be thereabouts at that time, or that they did not see my boat, by which they would have concluded that some inhabitants had been in the place, and perhaps have searched farther for me. Then terrible thoughts racked my imagination about their having found my boat, and that there were people here; and that if so, I should certainly have them come again in greater numbers, and devour me; that if it should happen so that they should not find me, yet they would find my enclosure, destroy all my corn, carry away all my flock of tame goats, and I should perish at last for mere want. Thus my fear banished all my religious hope, all that former confidence in God, which was founded upon such wonderful experience as I had had of His goodness, now vanished, as if He that had fed me by miracle hitherto could not preserve by His power the provision which He had made for me by His goodness. I reproached myself with my easiness, that would not sow any more corn one year than would just serve me till the next season, as if no accident could intervene to prevent my enjoying the crop that was upon the ground; and this I thought so just a reproof that I resolved for the future to have two or three years’ corn beforehand, so that whatever might come, I might not perish for want of bread. [Crusoe finds the shore spread with bones. He becomes a recluse in his cell. He sees a fire on the island. He sees several savages, but at a distance, and he is not observed. He finds the wreck of a ship and takes supplies from it.] I HEAR THE FIRST SOUND OF A MAN’S VOICE I lived in this condition near two years more; but my unlucky head, that was always to let me know it was born to make my body miserable, was all this two years filled with projects and designs how, if it were possible, I might get away from this island; for sometimes I was for making another voyage to the wreck, though my reason told me that there was nothing left there worth the hazard of my voyage, sometimes for a ramble one way, sometimes another; and I believe verily, if I had had the boat that I went from Sallee in, I should have ventured to sea, bound anywhere, I knew not whither. I had been in all my circumstances a memento to those who are touched with the general plague of mankind, whence, for aught I know,

Daniel Defoe68 one half of their miseries flow; I mean, that of not being satisfied with the station wherein God and Nature hath placed them; for not to look back upon my primitive condition, and the excellent advice of my father, the opposition to which was, as I may call it, my original sin, my subsequent mistakes of the same kind had been the means of my coming into this miserable condition; for had that Providence, which so happily had seated me at Brazil as a planter, blessed me with confined desires, and I could have been contented to have gone on gradually, I might have been by this time, I mean in the time of my being in this island, one of the most considerable planters in Brazil; nay, I am persuaded, that by the improvements I had made in that little time I lived there and the increase I should probably have made if I had stayed, I might have been worth a hundred thousand moidores; and what business had I to leave a settled fortune, a well-stocked plantation, improving and increasing, to turn supercargo to Guinea, to fetch Negroes, when patience and time would have so increased our stock at home that we could have bought them at our own door from those whose business it was to fetch them? And though it had cost us something more, yet the difference of that price was by no means worth saving at so great a hazard. But as this is ordinarily the fate of young heads, so reflection upon the folly of it is as ordinarily the exercise of more years, or of the dear-bought experience of time; and so it was with me now; and yet so deep had the mistake taken root in my temper that I could not satisfy myself in my station, but was continually poring upon the means and possibility of my escape from this place; and that I may with the greater pleasure to the reader bring on the remaining part of my story, it may not be improper to give some account of my first conceptions on the subject of this foolish scheme for my escape; and how, and upon what foundation, I acted. I am now to be supposed retired into my castle, after my late voyage to the wreck, my frigate laid up and secured under water as usual, and my condition restored to what it was before. I had more wealth, indeed, than I had before, but was not at all the richer; for I had no more use for it than the Indians of Peru had before the Spaniards came there. It was one of the nights in the rainy season in March, the four and twentieth year of my first setting foot in this island of solitariness. I was lying in my bed, or hammock, awake, very well in health, had no pain, no distemper, no uneasiness of body, no, nor any uneasiness of mind, more than ordinary; but could by no means close my eyes; that is, so as to sleep; no, not a wink all night long, otherwise than as follows:

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 69 It is as impossible as needless to set down the innumerable crowd of thoughts that whirled through that great thoroughfare of the brain, the memory, in this night’s time. I ran over the whole history of my life in miniature, or by abridgment, as I may call it, to my coming to this island; and also of the part of my life since I came to this island. In my reflections upon the state of my case since I came on shore on this island, I was comparing the happy posture of my affairs in the first years of my habitation here, compared to the life of anxiety, fear, and care, which I had lived ever since I had seen the print of a foot in the sand; not that I did not believe the savages had frequented the island even all the while, and might have been several hundreds of them at times on shore there; but I had never known it, and was incapable of any apprehensions about it; my satisfaction was perfect, though my danger was the same; and I was as happy in not knowing my danger as if I had never really been exposed to it. This furnished my thoughts with many very profitable reflections, and particularly this one, how infinitely good that Providence is which has provided in its government of mankind such narrow bounds to his sight and knowledge of things; and though he walks in the midst of so many thousand dangers, the sight of which, if discovered to him, would distract his mind and sink his spirits, he is kept serene and calm by having the events of things hid from his eyes, and knowing nothing of the dangers which surround him. After these thoughts had for some time entertained me, I came to reflect seriously upon the real danger I had been in for so many years in this very island; and how I had walked about in the greatest security and with all possible tranquillity, even when perhaps nothing but a brow of a hill, a great tree, or the casual approach of night, had been between me and the worst kind of destruction, viz., that of falling into the hands of cannibals and savages, who would have seized on me with the same view as I did of a goat or a turtle; and have thought it no more a crime to kill and devour me than I did of a pigeon or a curlew. I should unjustly slander myself if I should say I was not sincerely thankful to my great Preserver, to whose singular protection I acknowledged, with great humility, that all these unknown deliverances were due; and without which I must inevitably have fallen into their merciless hands. When these thoughts were over, my head was for some time taken up in considering the nature of these wretched creatures, I mean the savages; and how it came to pass in the world that the wise Governor of all things should give up any of His creatures to such inhumanity; nay, to some- thing so much below even brutality itself as to devour its own kind; but

Daniel Defoe70 as this ended in some (at that time fruitless) speculations, it occurred to me to inquire what part of the world these wretches lived in; how far off the coast was from whence they came; what they ventured over so far from home for; what kind of boats they had; and why I might not order myself and my business so that I might be as able to go over thither as they were to come to me. I never so much as troubled myself to consider what I should do with myself when I came thither; what would become of me, if I fell into the hands of the savages; or how I should escape from them, if they attempted me; no, nor so much as how it was possible for me to reach the coast and not be attempted by some or other of them, without any possibility of delivering myself; and if I should not fall into their hands, what I should do for provision, or whither I should bend my course; none of these thoughts, I say, so much as came in my way; but my mind was wholly bent upon the notion of my passing over in my boat to the mainland. I looked back upon my present condition as the most miserable that could possibly be; that I was not able to throw myself into anything but death that could be called worse; that if I reached the shore of the main, I might perhaps meet with relief, or I might coast along, as I did on the shore of Africa, till I came to some inhabited country, and where I might find some relief; and after all, perhaps I might fall in with some Christian ship that might take me in; and if the worse came to the worst, I could but die, which would put an end to all these miseries at once. Pray note, all this was the fruit of a disturbed mind, an impatient temper, made, as it were, desperate by the long continuance of my troubles and the disappointments I had met in the wreck I had been on board of, and where I had been so near the obtaining what I so earnestly longed for, viz., somebody to speak to and to learn some knowledge from of the place where I was and of the probable means of my deliverance; I say, I was agitated wholly by these thoughts. All my calm of mind in my resignation to Providence, and waiting the issue of the dispositions of Heaven, seemed to be suspended; and I had, as it were, no power to turn my thoughts to anything but to the project of a voyage to the main, which came upon me with such force and such an impetuosity of desire that it was not to be resisted. When this had agitated my thoughts for two hours or more, with such violence that it set my very blood into a ferment, and my pulse beat as high as if I had been in a fever merely with the extraordinary fervour of my mind about it; nature, as if I had been fatigued and exhausted with the very thought of it, threw me into a sound sleep. One would have

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 71 thought I should have dreamed of it; but I did not, nor of anything relating to it; but I dreamed that as I was going out in the morning as usual from my castle, I saw upon the shore two canoes and eleven savages coming to land, and that they brought with them another savage, whom they were going to kill, in order to eat him; when on a sudden, the savage that they were going to kill jumped away, and ran for his life; and I thought in my sleep that he came running into my little thick grove, before my fortification, to hide himself; and that I, seeing him alone and not perceiving that the other sought him that way, showed myself to him, and smiling upon him, encouraged him; that he kneeled down to me, seeming to pray me to assist him; upon which I showed my ladder, made him go up, and carried him into my cave, and he became my servant; and that as soon as I had gotten this man, I said to myself, “Now I may certainly venture to the mainland; for this fellow will serve me as a pilot, and will tell me what to do, and whither to go for provisions; and whither not to go for fear of being devoured; what places to venture into, and what to escape.” I waked with this thought, and was under such inexpressible impressions of joy at the prospect of my escape in my dream that the disappointments which I felt upon coming to myself and finding it was no more than a dream were equally extravagant the other way, and threw me into a very great dejection of spirit. Upon this, however, I made this conclusion, that my only way to go about an attempt for an escape was, if possible, to get a savage into my possession; and, if possible, it should be one of their prisoners, whom they had condemned to be eaten and should bring hither to kill; but these thoughts still were attended with this difficulty, that it was impossible to effect this without attacking a whole caravan of them and killing them all; and this was not only a very desperate attempt, and might miscarry, but on the other hand, I had greatly scrupled the lawfulness of it to me, and my heart trembled at the thoughts of shedding so much blood, though it was for my deliverance. I need not repeat the arguments which occurred to me against this, they being the same mentioned before. But though I had other reasons to offer now, viz., that those men were enemies to my life and would devour me if they could, that it was self-preservation in the highest degree to deliver myself from this death of a life, and was acting in my own defence as much as if they were actually assaulting me, and the like. I say, though these things argued for it, yet the thoughts of shedding human blood for my deliverance were very terrible to me, and such as I could by no means reconcile myself to a great while. However, at last, after many secret disputes with myself and after

Daniel Defoe72 great perplexities about it (for all these arguments, one way and another, struggled in my head a long time), the eager prevailing desire of deliverance at length mastered all the rest, and I resolved, if possible, to get one of those savages into my hands, cost what it would. My next thing then was to contrive how to do it; and this indeed was very difficult to resolve on. But as I could pitch upon no probable means for it, so I resolved to put myself upon the watch, to see them when they came on shore, and leave the rest to the event, taking such measures as the opportunity should present, let be what would be. With these resolutions in my thoughts, I set myself upon the scout, as often as possible, and indeed so often till I was heartily tired of it; for it was above a year and half that I waited, and for great part of that time went out to the west end and to the southwest corner of the island almost every day, to see for canoes, but none appeared. This was very discouraging, and began to trouble me much; though I cannot say that it did in this case as it had done some time before that, viz., wear off the edge of my desire to the thing; but the longer it seemed to be delayed, the more eager I was for it; in a word, I was not at first so careful to shun the sight of these savages and avoid being seen by them as I was now eager to be upon them. Besides, I fancied myself able to manage one, nay, two or three savages, if I had them, so as to make them entirely slaves to me, to do whatever I should direct them, and to prevent their being able at any time to do me any hurt. It was a great while that I pleased myself with this affair, but nothing still presented; all my fancies and schemes came to nothing, for no savages came near me for a great while. About a year and a half after I had entertained these notions and, by long musing, had as it were resolved them all into nothing, for want of an occasion to put them in execution, I was surprised one morning early with seeing no less than five canoes all on shore together on my side of the island; and the people who belonged to them all landed, and out of my sight. The number of them broke all my measures; for seeing so many and knowing that they always came four, or six, or sometimes more, in a boat, I could not tell what to think of it, or how to take my measures, to attack twenty or thirty men singlehanded; so I lay still in my castle, perplexed and discomforted. However, I put myself into all the same postures for an attack that I had formerly provided, and was just ready for action if anything had presented; having waited a good while, listening to hear if they made any noise, at length being very impatient, I set my guns at the foot of my ladder and clambered up to the top of the hill

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 73 by my two stages as usual, standing so, however, that my head did not appear above the hill, so that they could not perceive me by any means; here I observed, by the help of my perspective-glass, that there were no less than thirty in number, that they had a fire kindled, that they had had meat dressed. How they had cooked it, that I knew not, or what it was; but they were all dancing in I know not how many barbarous gestures and figures, their own way, round the fire. While I was thus looking on them, I perceived by my perspective two miserable wretches dragged from the boats, where, it seems, they were laid by, and were now brought out for the slaughter. I perceived one of them immediately fell, being knocked down, I suppose, with a club or wooden sword, for that was their way, and two or three others were at work immediately, cutting him open for their cookery, while the other victim was left standing by himself, till they should be ready for him. In that very moment, this poor wretch seeing himself a little at liberty, Nature inspired him with hopes of life, and he started away from them, and ran with incredible swiftness along the sands directly towards me, I mean towards that part of the coast where my habitation was. I was dreadfully frighted (that I must acknowledge) when I perceived him to run my way; and especially, when, as I thought, I saw him pursued by the whole body; and now I expected that part of my dream was coming to pass, and that he would certainly take shelter in my grove; but I could not depend by any means upon my dream for the rest of it, viz., that the other savages would not pursue him thither, and find him there. However, I kept my station, and my spirits began to recover when I found that there was not above three men that followed him; and still more was I encouraged when I found that he outstripped them exceedingly in running and gained ground of them; so that if he could but hold it for half an hour, I saw easily he would fairly get away from them all. There was between them and my castle the creek which I mentioned often at the first part of my story, when I landed my cargoes out of the ship; and this I saw plainly he must necessarily swim over, or the poor wretch would be taken there. But when the savage escaping came thither, he made nothing of it, though the tide was then up; but plunging in, swam through in about thirty strokes or thereabouts, landed, and ran on with exceeding strength and swiftness; when the three persons came to the creek, I found that two of them could swim, but the third could not, and that standing on the other side, he looked at the other, but went no farther; and soon after went softly back again, which, as it happened, was very well for him in the main.

Daniel Defoe74 I observed that the two who swam were yet more than twice as long swimming over the creek as the fellow was that fled from them. It came now very warmly upon my thoughts, and indeed irresistibly, that now was my time to get me a servant, and perhaps a companion, or assistant; and that I was called plainly by Providence to save this poor creature’s life; I immediately ran down the ladders with all possible expedition, fetched my two guns, for they were both but at the foot of the ladders, as I observed above; and getting up again, with the same haste, to the top of the hill, I crossed towards the sea; and having a very short cut, and all down hill, clapped myself in the way between the pursuers and the pursued, hallooing aloud to him that fled, who, looking back, was at first perhaps as much frighted at me as at them; but I beckoned with my hand to him to come back, and in the meantime I slowly advanced towards the two that followed; then rushing at once upon the foremost, I knocked him down with the stock of my piece; I was loath to fire, because I would not have the rest hear; though at that distance, it would not have been easily heard; and being out of sight of the smoke too, they would not have easily known what to make of it. Having knocked this fellow down, the other who pursued him stopped, as if he had been frighted; and I advanced apace towards him; but as I came nearer, I perceived presently he had a bow and arrow, and was fitting it to shoot at me; so I was then necessitated to shoot at him first; which I did, and killed him at the first shoot. The poor savage who fled, but had stopped, though he saw both his enemies fallen and killed, as he thought, yet was so frighted with the fire and noise of my piece, that he stood stock still and neither came forward or went backward, though he seemed rather inclined to fly still than to come on; I holloed again to him, and made signs to come forward, which he easily understood, and came a little way, then stopped again, and then a little farther, and stopped again; and I could then perceive that he stood trembling, as if he had been taken prisoner, and had just been to be killed, as his two enemies were; I beckoned him again to come to me, and gave him all the signs of encouragement that I could think of; and he came nearer and nearer, kneeling down every ten or twelve steps in token of acknowledgement for my saving his life; I smiled at him and looked pleasantly and beckoned to him to come still nearer; at length he came close to me, and then he kneeled down again, kissed the ground, and laid his head upon the ground, and taking me by the foot, set my foot upon his head: this, it seems, was in token of swearing to be my slave forever. I took him up, and made much of him, and encouraged him all I could. But there was

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 75 more work to do yet, for I perceived the savage whom I knocked down was not killed, but stunned with the blow, and began to come to himself; so I pointed to him, and showing him the savage, that he was not dead; upon this he spoke some words to me, and though I could not understand them, yet I thought they were pleasant to hear, for they were the first sound of a man’s voice that I had heard, my own excepted, for above twenty-five years. But there was no time for such reflections now; the savage who was knocked down recovered himself so far as to sit up upon the ground, and I perceived that my savage began to be afraid; but when I saw that, I presented my other piece at the man as if I would shoot him; upon this my savage, for so I call him now, made a motion to me to lend him my sword, which hung naked in a belt by my side; so I did. He no sooner had it, but he runs to his enemy, and at one blow cut off his head as cleverly, no executioner in Germany could have done it sooner or better; which I thought very strange for one who I had reason to believe never saw a sword in his life before, except their own wooden swords; however, it seems, as I learned afterwards, they make their wooden swords so sharp, so heavy, and the wood is so hard, that they will cut off heads even with them, ay, and arms, and that at one blow too. When he had done this, he comes laughing to me in sign of triumph and brought me the sword again, and with abundance of gestures which I did not understand, laid it down, with the head of the savage that he had killed, just before me. But that which astonished him most was to know how I had killed the other Indian so far off; so pointing to him, he made signs to me to let him go to him; so I bade him go, as well as I could; when he came to him, he stood like one amazed, looking at him, turned him first on one side, then on t’ other, looked at the wound the bullet had made, which, it seems, was just in his breast, where it had made a hole, and no great quantity of blood had followed, but he had bled inwardly, for he was quite dead. He took up his bow and arrows, and came back; so I turned to go away and beckoned to him to follow me, making signs to him that more might come after them. Upon this he signed to me that he should bury them with sand, that they might not be seen by the rest if they followed; and so I made signs again to him to do so; he fell to work, and in an instant he had scraped a hole in the sand with his hands big enough to bury the first in, and then dragged him into it and covered him and did so also by the other; I believe he had buried them both in a quarter of an hour; then calling him away, I carried him, not to my castle, but quite away to my cave, on the

Daniel Defoe76 farther part of the island; so I did not let my dream come to pass in that part, viz., that he came into my grove for shelter. Here I gave him bread and a bunch of raisins to eat, and a draught of water, which I found he was indeed in great distress for, by his running; and having refreshed him, I made signs for him to go lie down and sleep, pointing to a place where I had laid a great parcel of rice straw, and a blanket upon it, which I used to sleep upon myself sometimes; so the poor creature lay down and went to sleep. I CALL HIM FRIDAY He was a comely, handsome fellow, perfectly well made, with straight strong limbs, not too large, tall and well-shaped, and, as I reckon, about twenty-six years of age. He had a very good countenance, not a fierce and surly aspect, but seemed to have something very manly in his face, and yet he had all the sweetness and softness of a European in his countenance too, especially when he smiled. His hair was long and black, not curled like wool; his forehead very high and large; and a great vivacity and sparkling sharpness in his eyes. The colour of his skin was not quite black, but very tawny; and yet not of an ugly yellow, nauseous tawny, as the Brazilians and Virginians, and other natives of America are; but of a bright kind of a dun olive colour that had in it something very agreeable, though not very easy to describe. His face was round and plump; his nose small, not flat like the Negroes’, a very good mouth, thin lips, and his fine teeth well set, and white as ivory. After he had slumbered, rather than slept, about half an hour, he waked again, and comes out of the cave to me, for I had been milking my goats, which I had in the enclosure just by. When he espied me, he came running to me, laying himself down again upon the ground, with all the possible signs of a humble, thankful disposition, making a many antic gestures to show it. At last he lays his head flat upon the ground, close to my foot, and sets my other foot upon his head, as he had done before; and after this, made all the signs to me of subjection, servitude, and submission imaginable, to let me know how he would serve me as long as he lived; I understood him in many things and let him know I was very well pleased with him; in a little time I began to speak to him and teach him to speak to me; and first, I made him know his name should be Friday, which was the day I saved his life; I called him so for the memory of the time; I likewise taught him to say “Master,” and then let him know that was to be my name; I likewise taught him to say “yes” and “no” and to know the mean-

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 77 ing of them; I gave him some milk in an earthen pot and let him see me drink it before him and sop my bread in it; and I gave him a cake of bread to do the like, which he quickly complied with, and made signs that it was very good for him. I kept there with him all that night, but as soon as it was day, I beckoned to him to come with me, and let him know I would give him some clothes, at which he seemed very glad, for he was stark naked. As we went by the place where he had buried the two men, he pointed exactly to the place, and showed me the marks that he had made to find them again, making signs to me that we should dig them up again and eat them; at this I appeared very angry, expressed my abhorrence of it, made as if I would vomit at the thoughts of it, and beckoned with my hand to him to come away, which he did immediately, with great submission. I then led him up to the top of the hill, to see if his enemies were gone; and pulling out my glass, I looked, and saw plainly the place where they had been, but no appearance of them or of their canoes; so that it was plain they were gone, and had left their two comrades behind them, without any search after them. But I was not content with this discovery, but having now more courage, and consequently more curiosity, I took my man Friday with me, giving him the sword in his hand, with the bow and arrows at his back, which I found he could use very dexterously, making him carry one gun for me, and I two for myself, and away we marched to the place where these creatures had been; for I had a mind now to get some fuller intelligence of them. When I came to the place, my very blood ran chill in my veins, and my heart sunk within me at the horror of the spectacle. Indeed, it was a dreadful sight, at least it was so to me, though Friday made nothing of it. The place was covered with human bones, the ground dyed with their blood, great pieces of flesh left here and there, half eaten, mangled and scorched; and in short, all the tokens of the triumphant feast they had been making there, after a victory over their enemies. I saw three skulls, five hands, and the bones of three or four legs and feet, and abundance of other parts of the bodies; and Friday, by his signs, made me understand that they brought over four prisoners to feast upon; that three of them were eaten up, and that he, pointing to himself, was the fourth; that there had been a great battle between them and their next king, whose subjects it seems he had been one of; and that they had taken a great number of prisoners, all which were carried to several places by those that had taken them in the fight, in order to feast upon them, as was done here by these wretches upon those they brought hither.

Daniel Defoe78 I caused Friday to gather all the skulls, bones, flesh, and whatever remained, and lay them together on a heap, and make a great fire upon it and burn them all to ashes. I found Friday had still a hankering stomach after some of the flesh, and was still a cannibal in his nature; but I discovered so much abhorrence at the very thoughts of it, and at the least appearance of it, that he durst not discover it; for I had, by some means, let him know that I would kill him if he offered it. When we had done this, we came back to our castle, and there I fell to work for my man Friday; and first of all I gave him a pair of linen drawers, which I had out of the poor gunner’s chest I mentioned, and which I found in the wreck; and which, with a little alteration, fitted him very well; then I made him a jerkin of goat’s skin, as well as my skill would allow; and I was now grown a tolerable good tailor; and I gave him a cap, which I had made of a hare-skin, very convenient and fashionable enough; and thus he was clothed, for the present, tolerably well, and was mighty well pleased to see himself almost as well clothed as his master. It is true, he went awkwardly in these things at first; wearing the drawers was very awkward to him, and the sleeves of the waistcoat galled his shoulders and the inside of his arms; but a little easing them, where he complained they hurt him, and using himself to them, at length he took to them very well. The next day after I came home to my hutch with him, I began to consider where I should lodge him; and that I might do well for him, and yet be perfectly easy myself, I made a little tent for him in the vacant place between my two fortifications, in the inside of the last and in the outside of the first. And as there was a door or entrance there into my cave, I made a formal framed door-case, and a door to it of boards, and set it up in the passage, a little within the entrance; and causing the door to open on the inside, I barred it up in the night, taking in my ladders too; so that Friday could no way come at me in the inside of my innermost wall without making so much noise in getting over that it must needs waken me; for my first wall had now a complete roof over it of long poles, covering all my tent and leaning up to the side of the hill, which was again laid across with smaller sticks instead of laths, and then thatched over a great thickness with the rice straw, which was strong like reeds; and at the hole or place which was left to go in or out by the ladder I had placed a kind of trap-door, which, if it had been attempted on the outside, would not have opened at all, but would have fallen down and made a great noise; and as to weapons, I took them all into my side every night.

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 79 But I needed none of all this precaution; for never man had a more faithful, loving, sincere servant than Friday was to me; without passions, sullenness, or designs, perfectly obliged and engaged; his very affections were tied to me, like those of a child to a father; and I dare say he would have sacrificed his life for the saving mine upon any occasion whatsoever; the many testimonies he gave me of this put it out of doubt and soon convinced me that I needed to use no precautions as to my safety on his account. This frequently gave me occasion to observe, and that with wonder, that however it had pleased God, in His providence, and in the government of the works of His hands, to take from so great a part of the world of His creatures the best uses to which their faculties and the powers of their souls are adapted; yet that He has bestowed upon them the same powers, the same reason, the same affections, the same sentiments of kindness and obligation, the same passions and resentments of wrongs, the same sense of gratitude, sincerity, fidelity, and all the capacities of doing good and receiving good that He has given to us; and that when He pleases to offer to them occasions of exerting these, they are as ready, nay, more ready to apply them to the right uses for which they were bestowed than we are. And this made me very melancholy sometimes, in reflecting, as the several occasions presented, how mean a use we make of all these, even though we have these powers enlightened by the great lamp of instruction, the Spirit of God, and by the knowledge of His Word, added to our understanding; and why it has pleased God to hide the like saving knowledge from so many millions of souls, who (if I might judge by this poor savage) would make a much better use of it than we did. From hence I sometimes was led too far to invade the sovereignty of Providence and, as it were, arraign the justice of so arbitrary a disposition of things that should hide that light from some and reveal it to others, and yet expect a like duty from both. But I shut it up and checked my thoughts with this conclusion, first, that we did not know by what light and law these should be condemned; but that, as God was necessarily, and by the nature of His being, infinitely holy and just, so it could not be but that if these creatures were all sentenced to absence from Himself, it was on account of sinning against that light which, as the Scripture says, was a law to themselves, and by such rules as their consciences would acknowledge to be just, though the foundation was not discovered to us. And secondly, that still as we are all the clay in the hand of the Potter, no vessel could say to Him, “Why hast Thou formed me thus?” But to return to my new companion: I was greatly delighted with him,

Daniel Defoe80 and made it my business to teach him everything that was proper to make him useful, handy, and helpful; but especially to make him speak and understand me when I spoke; and he was the aptest scholar that ever was, and particularly was so merry, so constantly diligent, and so pleased when he could but understand me or make me understand him, that it was very pleasant to me to talk to him; and now my life began to be so easy that I began to say to myself that could I but have been safe from more savages, I cared not if I was never to remove from the place while I lived. After I had been two or three days returned to my castle, I thought that, in order to bring Friday off from his horrid way of feeding and from the relish of a cannibal’s stomach, I ought to let him taste other flesh; so I took him out with me one morning to the woods. I went, indeed, intending to kill a kid out of my own flock and bring it home and dress it. But as I was going, I saw a she-goat lying down in the shade, and two young kids sitting by her; I caught hold of Friday. “Hold,” says I, “stand still”; and made signs to him not to stir; immediately I presented my piece, shot and killed one of the kids. The poor creature, who had at a distance, indeed, seen me kill the savage, his enemy, but did not know or could imagine how it was done, was sensibly surprised, trembled and shook, and looked so amazed that I thought he would have sunk down. He did not see the kid I had shot at, or perceive I had killed it, but ripped up his waistcoat to feel if he was not wounded, and, as I found presently, thought I was resolved to kill him; for he came and kneeled down to me and, embracing my knees, said a great many things I did not understand; but I could easily see that the meaning was to pray me not to kill him. I soon found a way to convince him that I would do him no harm and, taking him up by the hand, laughed at him and, pointing to the kid which I had killed, beckoned to him to run and fetch it, which he did; and while he was wondering and looking to see how the creature was killed, I loaded my gun again, and by and by I saw a great fowl, like a hawk, sit upon a tree within shot; so, to let Friday understand a little what I would do, I called him to me again, pointing at the fowl, which was indeed a parrot, though I thought it had been a hawk; I say, pointing to the parrot, and to my gun, and to the ground under the parrot, to let him see I would make it fall, I made him understand that I would shoot and kill that bird; accordingly I fired and bade him look, and immediately he saw the parrot fall; he stood like one frighted again, notwithstanding all I had said to him; and I found he was the more amazed because he did not see me put anything into the gun; but thought that there must be some

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 81 wonderful fund of death and destruction in that thing, able to kill man, beast, bird, or anything near or far off; and the astonishment this created in him was such as could not wear off for a long time; and I believe, if I would have let him, he would have worshipped me and my gun. As for the gun itself, he would not so much as touch it for several days after; but would speak to it, and talk to it as if it had answered him, when he was by himself; which, as I afterwards learned of him, was to desire it not to kill him. Well, after his astonishment was a little over at this, I pointed to him to run and fetch the bird I had shot, which he did, but stayed some time; for the parrot, not being quite dead, was fluttered away a good way off from the place where she fell; however, he found her, took her up, and brought her to me; and as I had perceived his ignorance about the gun before, I took this advantage to charge the gun again, and not let him see me do it, that I might be ready for any other mark that might present; but nothing more offered at that time; so I brought home the kid, and the same evening I took the skin off and cut it out as well as I could; and having a pot for that purpose, I boiled, or stewed, some of the flesh, and made some very good broth; and after I had begun to eat some, I gave some to my man, who seemed very glad of it, and liked it very well; but that which was strangest to him was to see me eat salt with it; he made a sign to me that the salt was not good to eat, and putting a little into his own mouth, he seemed to nauseate it, and would spit and sputter at it, washing his mouth with fresh water after it; on the other hand, I took some meat in my mouth without salt, and I pretended to spit and sputter for want of salt, as fast as he had done at the salt; but it would not do, he would never care for salt with his meat, or in his broth; at least, not a great while, and then but a very little. Having thus fed him with boiled meat and broth, I was resolved to feast him the next day with roasting a piece of the kid; this I did by hanging it before the fire in a string, as I had seen many people do in England, setting two poles up, one on each side the fire, and one across on the top, and tying the string to the cross stick, letting the meat turn continually. This Friday admired very much; but when he came to taste the flesh, he took so many ways to tell me how well he liked it that I could not but understand him; and at last he told me he would never eat man’s flesh any more, which I was very glad to hear. The next day I set him to work to beating some corn out, and sifting it in the manner I used to do, as I observed before; and he soon understood how to do it as well as I, especially after he had seen what the meaning

Daniel Defoe82 of it was, and that it was to make bread of; for after that I let him see me make my bread, and bake it too, and in a little time Friday was able to do all the work for me, as well as I could do it myself. I began now to consider that, having two mouths to feed instead of one, I must provide more ground for my harvest and plant a larger quantity of corn than I used to do; so I marked out a larger piece of land, and began the fence in the same manner as before, in which Friday not only worked very willingly and very hard, but did it very cheerfully; and I told him what it was for, that it was for corn to make more bread, because he was now with me, and that I might have enough for him and myself too. He appeared very sensible of that part, and let me know that he thought I had much more labour upon me on his account than I had for myself; and that he would work the harder for me, if I would tell him what to do. WE MAKE ANOTHER CANOE This was the pleasantest year of all the life I led in this place; Friday began to talk pretty well, and understand the names of almost everything I had occasion to call f or, and of every place I had to send him to, and talk a great deal to me; so that, in short, I began now to have some use for my tongue again, which indeed I had very little occasion for before; that is to say, about speech. Besides the pleasure of talking to him, I had a singular satisfaction in the fellow himself; his simple, unfeigned honesty appeared to me more and more every day, and I began really to love the creature; and on his side, I believe he loved me more than it was possible for him ever to love anything before. I had a mind once to try if he had any hankering inclination to his own country again, and having learned [taught] him English so well that he could answer me almost any questions, I asked him whether the nation that he belonged to never conquered in battle. At which he smiled, and said, “Yes, yes, we always fight the better”; that is, he meant, always get the better in fight; and so we began the following discourse: “You always fight the better,” said I; “how came you to be taken prisoner then, Friday?” FRIDAY: My nation beat much, for all that. MASTER: How beat? If your nation beat them, how came you to be taken? FRIDAY: They more many than my nation in the place where me was; they take one, two, three, and me; my nation overbeat them in the yonder place, where me no was; there my nation take one, two, great thousand.

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 83 MASTER: But why did not your side recover you from the hands of your enemies then? FRIDAY: They run one, two, three, and me, and make go in the canoe; my nation have no canoe that time. MASTER: Well, Friday, and what does your nation do with the men they take? Do they carry them away, and eat them, as these did? FRIDAY: Yes, my nation eat mans too, eat all up. MASTER: Where do they carry them? FRIDAY: Go to other place, where they think. MASTER: Do they come hither? FRIDAY: Yes, yes, they come hither; come other else place. MASTER: Have you been here with them? FRIDAY: Yes, I been here. (Points to the northwest side of the island, which, it seems, was their side.) By this I understand that my man Friday had formerly been among the savages who used to come on shore on the farther part of the island, on the said man-eating occasions that he was now brought for; and some time after, when I took the courage to carry him to that side, being the same I formerly mentioned, he presently knew the place and told me he was there once when they ate up twenty men, two women, and one child; he could not tell twenty in English, but he numbered them by laying so many stones in a row and pointing to me to tell them over. I have told this passage because it introduces what follows; that after I had had this discourse with him, I asked him how far it was from our island to the shore, and whether the canoes were not often lost; he told me there was no danger, no canoes ever lost; but that after a little way out to the sea, there was a current, and a wind, always one way in the morning, the other in the afternoon. This I understood to be no more than the sets of the tide, as going out or coming in; but I afterwards understood it was occasioned by the great draft and reflux of the mighty river Orinoco, in the mouth, or the gulf, of which river, as I found afterwards, our island lay; and this land which I perceived to the west and north-west was the great island Trinidad, on the north point of the mouth of the river. I asked Friday a thousand questions about the country, the inhabitants, the sea, the coast, and what nations were near; he told me all he knew, with the greatest openness imaginable; I asked him the names of the several nations of his sort of people, but could get no other name than Caribs; from whence I easily understood that these were the Caribbees, which our maps place on the part of America which reaches from the mouth of the river Orinoco to

Daniel Defoe84 Guiana, and onwards to Santa Marta. He told me that up a great way beyond the moon, that was, beyond the setting of the moon, which must be west from their country, there dwelt white bearded men, like me, and pointed to my great whiskers, which I mentioned before; and they had killed “much mans,” that was his word; by all which I understood he meant the Spaniards, whose cruelties in America had been spread over the whole countries and were remembered by all the nations from father to son. I inquired if he could tell me how I might come from this island and get among those white men; he told me, “Yes, yes, I might go in two canoe”; I could not understand what he meant, or make him describe to me what he meant by “two canoe,” till at last, with great difficulty, I found he meant it must be in a large great boat, as big as two canoes. This part of Friday’s discourse began to relish with me very well; and from this time I entertained some hopes that one time or other I might find an opportunity to make my escape from this place and that this poor savage might be a means to help me to do it. During the long time that Friday had now been with me, and that he began to speak to me and understand me, I was not wanting to lay a foundation of religious knowledge in his mind; particularly, I asked him one time, who made him. The poor creature did not understand me at all, but thought I had asked who was his father; but I took it by another handle, and asked him who made the sea, the ground we walked on, and the hills and woods; he told me it was one old Benamuckee, that lived beyond all. He could describe nothing of this great person but that he was very old; much older, he said, than the sea or the land, than the moon or the stars. I asked him then, if this old person had made all things, why did not all things worship him? He looked very grave, and with a perfect look of innocence, said All things said O! to him. I asked him if the people who die in his country went away anywhere; he said yes, they all went to Benamuckee; then I asked him whether these they eat up went thither too. He said yes. From these things I began to instruct him in the knowledge of the true God. I told him that the great Maker of all things lived up there, pointing up towards Heaven. That He governs the world by the same Power and Providence by which He made it. That He was omnipotent, could do everything for us, give everything to us, take everything from us; and thus by degrees I opened his eyes. He listened with great attention, and received with pleasure the notion of Jesus Christ being sent to redeem us, and of the manner of making our prayers to God, and His being able to

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 85 hear us, even into Heaven; he told me one day that if our God could hear us up beyond the sun, He must needs be a greater God than their Benamuckee, who lived but a little way off, and yet could not hear till they went up to the great mountains where he dwelt, to speak to him; I asked him if he ever went thither to speak to him; he said no; they never went that were young men; none went thither but the old men, whom he called their Oowokakee, that is, as I made him explain it to me, their religious, or clergy, and that they went to say O (so he called saying prayers), and then came back and told them what Benamuckee said. By this I observed that there is priestcraft even amongst the most blinded, ignorant pagans in the world, and the policy of making a secret religion, in order to preserve the veneration of the people to the clergy, is not only to be found in the Roman, but perhaps among all religions in the world, even among the most brutish and barbarous savages. I endeavoured to clear up this fraud to my man Friday, and told him that the pretence of their old men going up the mountains to say O to their god Benamuckee was a cheat, and their bringing word from thence what he said was much more so; that if they met with any answer, or spoke with anyone there, it must be with an evil spirit. And then I entered into a long discourse with him about the Devil, the original of him, his rebellion against God, his enmity to man, the reason of it, his setting himself up in the dark parts of the world to be worshipped instead of God, and as God; and the many stratagems he made use of to delude mankind to their ruin; how he had a secret access to our passions and to our affections, to adapt his snares so to our inclinations as to cause us even to be our own tempters and to run upon our destruction by our own choice. I found it was not easy to imprint right notions in his mind about the Devil, as it was about the being of a God. Nature assisted all my arguments to evidence to him even the necessity of a great First Cause and overruling, governing Power, a secret directing Providence, and of the equity and justice of paying homage to Him that made us, and the like. But there appeared nothing of all this in the notion of an evil spirit, of his original, his being, his nature, and above all, of his inclination to do evil, and to draw us in to do so too; and the poor creature puzzled me once in such a manner, by a question merely natural and innocent, that I scarce knew what to say to him. I had been talking a great deal to him of the power of God, His omnipotence, His dreadful aversion to sin, His being a consuming fire to the workers of iniquity; how, as He had made us all, He could destroy us and all the world in a moment; and he listened with great seriousness to me all the while.

Daniel Defoe86 After this, I had been telling him how the Devil was God’s enemy in the hearts of men, and used all his malice and skill to defeat the good designs of Providence, and to ruin the kingdom of Christ in the world, and the like. “Well,” says Friday, “but you say God is so strong, so great; is He not much strong, much might as the Devil?” “Yes, yes,” says I, “Friday, God is stronger than the Devil, God is above the Devil, and therefore we pray to God to tread him down under our feet, and enable us to resist his temptations and quench his fiery darts.” “But,” says he again, “if God much strong, much might as the Devil, why God no kill the Devil, so make him no more do wicked?” I was strangely surprised at his question, and after all, though I was now an old man, yet I was but a young doctor, and ill enough qualified for a casuist, or a solver of difficulties. And at first I could not tell what to say; so I pretended not to hear him, and asked him what he said. But he was too earnest for an answer to forget his question; so that he repeated it in the very same broken words as above. By this time I had recovered myself a little, and I said, “God will at last punish him severely, he is reserved for the judgment, and is to be cast into the bottomless pit, to dwell with everlasting fire.” This did not satisfy Friday, but he returns upon me, repeating my words, “‘Reserve at last,’ me no understand; but why not kill the Devil now, not kill great ago?” “You may as well ask me,” said I, “why God does not kill you and I, when we do wicked things here that offend Him. We are preserved to repent and be pardoned.” He muses awhile at this. “Well, well,” says he, mighty affectionately, “that well; so you, I, Devil, all wicked, all preserve, repent, God pardon all.” Here I was run down again by him to the last degree, and it was a testimony to me how the mere notions of nature, though they will guide reasonable creatures to the knowledge of a God, and of a worship or homage due to the supreme being of God, as the consequence of our nature; yet nothing but Divine revelation can form the knowledge of Jesus Christ, and of a redemption purchased for us, of a Mediator of the new covenant, and of an Intercessor at the footstool of God’s throne; I say, nothing but a revelation from Heaven can form these in the soul; and that therefore the Gospel of our Lord and Saviour Jesus Christ, I mean, the Word of God and the Spirit of God, promised for the guide and sanctifier of His people, are the absolutely necessary instructors of the souls of men, in the saving knowledge of God, and the means of salvation. I therefore diverted the present discourse between me and my man, rising up hastily, as upon some sudden occasion of going out; then sending him for something a good way off, I seriously prayed to God that He

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 87 would enable me to instruct savingly this poor savage, assisting by His Spirit the heart of the poor ignorant creature to receive the light of the knowledge of God in Christ, reconciling him to Himself, and would guide me to speak so to him from the Word of God as his conscience might be convinced, his eyes opened, and his soul saved. When he came again to me, I entered into a long discourse with him upon the subject of the redemption of man by the Saviour of the world, and of the doctrine of the Gospel preached from Heaven, viz., of repentance towards God, and faith in our blessed Lord Jesus. I then explained to him, as well as I could, why our blessed Redeemer took not on Him the nature of angels but the seed of Abraham, and how for that reason the fallen angels had no share in the redemption; that He came only to the lost sheep of the House of Israel, and the like. I had, God knows, more sincerity than knowledge in all the methods I took for this poor creature’s instruction, and must acknowledge what I believe all that act upon the same principle will find, that in laying things open to him, I really informed and instructed myself in many things that either I did not know or had not fully considered before, but which occurred naturally to my mind upon my searching into them for the information of this poor savage; and I had more affection in my inquiry after things upon this occasion than ever I felt before; so that whether this poor wild wretch was the better for me or no, I had great reason to be thankful that ever he came to me. My grief sat lighter upon me, my habitation grew comfortable to me beyond measure; and when I reflected that in this solitary life which I had been confined to, I had not only been moved myself to look up to Heaven and to seek to the Hand that had brought me there, but was now to be made an instrument under Providence to save the life and, for aught I knew, the soul of a poor savage, and bring him to the true knowledge of religion, and of the Christian doctrine, that he might know Christ Jesus, to know whom is life eternal; I say, when I reflected upon all these things, a secret joy ran through every part of my soul, and I frequently rejoiced that ever I was brought to this place, which I had so often thought the most dreadful of all afflictions that could possibly have befallen me. In this thankful frame I continued all the remainder of my time, and the conversation which employed the hours between Friday and I was such as made the three years which we lived there together perfectly and completely happy, if any such thing as complete happiness can be formed in a sublunary state. The savage was now a good Christian, a much better than I; though I have reason to hope, and bless God for it,

Daniel Defoe88 that we were equally penitent, and comforted, restored penitents; we had here the Word of God to read and no farther off from His Spirit to instruct than if we had been in England. I always applied myself to reading the Scripture to let him know, as well as I could, the meaning of what I read; and he again, by his serious inquiries and questions, made me, as I said before, a much better scholar in the Scripture knowledge than I should ever have been by my own private mere reading. Another thing I cannot refrain from observing here also, from experience in this retired part of my life, viz., how infinite and inexpressible a blessing it is that the knowledge of God and of the doctrine of salvation by Christ Jesus is so plainly laid down in the Word of God, so easy to be received and understood, that as the bare reading the Scripture made me capable of understanding enough of my duty to carry me directly on to the great work of sincere repentance for my sins, and laying hold of a Saviour for life and salvation, to a stated reformation in practice, and obedience to all God’s commands, and this without any teacher or instructor (I mean, human), so the same plain instruction sufficiently served to the enlightening this savage creature and bringing him to be such a Christian as I have known few equal to him in my life. As to all the disputes, wranglings, strife, and contention which has happened in the world about religion, whether niceties in doctrines, or schemes of church government, they were all perfectly useless to us; as, for aught I can yet see, they have been to all the rest in the world. We had the sure guide to Heaven, viz., the Word of God; and we had, blessed be God, comfortable views of the Spirit of God, teaching and instructing us by His Word, leading us into all truth, and making us both willing and obedient to the instruction of His Word; and I cannot see the least use that the greatest knowledge of the disputed points in religion, which have made such confusions in the world, would have been to us, if we could have obtained it; but I must go on with the historical part of things, and take every part in its order. After Friday and I became more intimately acquainted, and that he could understand almost all I said to him and speak fluently, though in broken English, to me, I acquainted him with my own story, or at least so much of it as related to my coming into the place, how I had lived there, and how long. I let him into the mystery, for such it was to him, of gunpowder and bullet, and taught him how to shoot. I gave him a knife, which he was wonderfully delighted with, and I made him a belt, with a frog hanging to it, such as in England we wear hangers in; and in the frog, instead of a hanger, I gave him a hatchet, which was not only as

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 89 good a weapon, in some cases, but much more useful upon other occasions. I described to him the country of Europe, and particularly England, which I came from; how we lived, how we worshipped God, how we behaved to one another; and how we traded in ships to all parts of the world. I gave him an account of the wreck which I had been on board of, and showed him as near as I could the place where she lay; but she was all beaten in pieces before, and gone. I showed him the ruins of our boat, which we lost when we escaped, and which I could not stir with my whole strength then, but was now fallen almost all to pieces. Upon seeing this boat, Friday stood musing a great while, and said nothing; I asked him what it was he studied upon; at last says he, “Me see such boat like come to place at my nation.” I did not understand him a good while; but at last, when I had examined further into it, I understood by him that a boat, such as that had been, came on shore upon the country where he lived; that is, as he explained it, was driven thither by stress of weather. I presently imagined that some European ship must have been cast away upon their coast, and the boat might get loose and drive ashore; but was so dull that I never once thought of men making escape from a wreck thither, much less whence they might come; so I only inquired after a description of the boat. Friday described the boat to me well enough, but brought me better to understand him when he added with some warmth, “We save the white mans from drown.” Then I presently asked him if there were any white mans, as he called them, in the boat. “Yes,” he said, “the boat full of white mans.” I asked him how many; he told upon his fingers seventeen. I asked him then what became of them; he told me, “They live, they dwell at my nation.” This put new thoughts into my head; for I presently imagined that these might be the men belonging to the ship that was cast away in sight of my island, as I now call it; and who, after the ship was struck on the rock and they saw her inevitably lost, had saved themselves in their boat and were landed upon that wild shore among the savages. Upon this I inquired of him more critically what was become of them. He assured me they lived still there; that they had been there about four years; that the savages let them alone, and gave them victuals to live. I asked him how it came to pass they did not kill them and eat them. He said, “No, they make brother with them”; that is, as I understood him, a truce. And then he added, “They no eat mans but when make the war fight”; that is to say, they never eat any men but such as come to fight with them and are taken in battle.

Daniel Defoe90 It was after this some considerable time that being on the top of the hill, at the east side of the island, from whence, as I have said, I had in a clear day discovered the main, or continent of America, Friday, the weather being very serene, looks very earnestly towards the mainland. and in a kind of surprise falls a-jumping and dancing, and calls out to me, for I was at some distance from him. I asked him what was the matter. “O joy!” says he, “O glad! There see my country, there my nation!” I observed an extraordinary sense of pleasure appeared in his face, and his eyes sparkled, and his countenance discovered a strange eagerness, as if he had a mind to be in his own country again; and this observation of mine put a great many thoughts into me, which made me at first not so easy about my new man Friday as I was before; and I made no doubt but that if Friday could get back to his own nation again, he would not only forget all his religion but all his obligation to me; and would be forward enough to give his countrymen an account of me, and come back, perhaps with a hundred or two of them, and make a feast upon me, at which he might be as merry as he used to be with those of his enemies, when they were taken in war. But I wronged the poor honest creature very much, for which I was very sorry afterwards. However, as my jealousy increased, and held me some weeks, I was a little more circumspect, and not so familiar and kind to him as before; in which I was certainly in the wrong too, the honest grateful creature having no thought about it but what consisted with the best principles, both as a religious Christian and as a grateful friend, as appeared afterwards to my full satisfaction. While my jealousy of him lasted, you may be sure I was every day pumping him to see if he would discover any of the new thoughts which I suspected were in him; but I found everything he said was so honest and so innocent that I could find nothing to nourish my suspicion; and in spite of all my uneasiness he made me at last entirely his own again; nor did he in the least perceive that I was uneasy, and therefore I could not suspect him of deceit. One day, walking up the same hill, but the weather being hazy at sea so that we could not see the continent, I called to him, and said, “Friday, do not you wish yourself in your own country, your own nation?” “Yes,” he said, “I be much O glad to be at my nation.” “What would you do there?” said I. “Would you turn wild again, eat men’s flesh again, and be a savage as you were before?” He looked full of concern, and shaking his head, said, “No, no, Friday tell them to live good, tell them to pray God, tell

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 91 them to eat corn bread, cattle flesh, milk, no eat man again.” “Why then,” said I to him, “they will kill you.” He looked grave at that, and then said, “No, they no kill me, they willing love learn.” He meant by this, they would be willing to learn. He added, they learned much of the bearded mans that come in the boat. Then I asked him if he would go back to them. He smiled at that and told me he could not swim so far. I told him I would make a canoe for him. He told me he would go, if I would go with him. “I go!” says I. “Why, they will eat me if I come there.” “No, no,” says he, “me make they no eat you; me make they much love you.” He meant he would tell them how I had killed his enemies and saved his life, and so he would make them love me; then he told me as well as he could how kind they were to seventeen white men, or bearded men, as he called them, who came on shore there in distress. From this time, I confess, I had a mind to venture over, and see if I could possibly join with these bearded men, who, I made no doubt, were Spaniards or Portuguese; not doubting but, if I could, we might find some method to escape from thence, being upon the continent, and a good company together, better than I could from an island forty miles off the shore, and alone without help. So after some days I took Friday to work again, by way of discourse, and told him I would give him a boat to go back to his own nation; and accordingly I carried him to my frigate, which lay on the other side of the island, and having cleared it of water, for I always kept it sunk in the water, I brought it out, showed it him, and we both went into it. I found that he was a most dexterous fellow at managing it, would make it go almost as swift and fast again as I could; so when he was in, I said to him, “Well, now, Friday, shall we go to your nation?” He looked very dull at my saying so, which, it seems, was because he thought the boat too small to go so far. I told him then I had a bigger; so the next day I went to the place where the first boat lay which I had made, but which I could not get into the water. He said that was big enough; but then, as I had taken no care of it, and it had lain two or three and twenty years there, the sun had split and dried it, that it was in a manner rotten. Friday told me such a boat would do very well and would carry “much enough victual, drink, bread”; that was his way of talking. Upon the whole, I was by this time so fixed upon my design of going over with him to the continent, that I told him we would go and make one as big as that, and he should go home in it. He answered not one word, but looked very grave and sad. I asked him what was the matter

Daniel Defoe92 with him; he asked me again thus, “Why you angry mad with Friday, what me done?” I asked him what he meant; I told him I was not angry with him at all. “No angry! no angry!” says he, repeating the words several times, “Why send Friday home away to my nation?” “Why,” says I, “Friday, did you not say you wished you were there?” “Yes, yes,” says he, “wish be both there, no wish Friday there, no Master there.” In a word, he would not think of going there without me. “I go there, Friday!” says I. “What shall I do there?” He turned very quick upon me at this: “You do great deal much good,” says he, “you teach wild mans be good sober tame mans; you tell them know God, pray God, and live new life.” “Alas, Friday,” says I, “thou knowest not what thou sayest. I am but an ignorant man myself.” “Yes, yes,” says he, “you teachee me good, you teachee them good.” “No, no, Friday,” says I, “you shall go without me, leave me here to live by myself, as I did before.” He looked confused again at that word, and running to one of the hatchets which he used to wear, he takes it up hastily, and gives it to me. “What must I do with this?” says I to him. “You take kill Friday,” says he. “What must I kill you for?” said I again. He returns very quick, “What you send Friday away for? Take kill Friday, no send Friday away.” This he spoke so earnestly that I saw tears stand in his eyes. In a word, I so plainly discovered the utmost affection in him to me, and a firm resolution in him, that I told him then, and often after, that I would never send him away from me, if he was willing to stay with me. Upon the whole, as I found by all his discourse a settled affection to me, and that nothing should part him from me, so I found all the foundation of his desire to go to his own country was laid in his ardent affection to the people, and his hopes of my doing them good; a thing, which as I had no notion of myself, so I had not the least thought or intention or desire of undertaking it. But still I found a strong inclination to my attempting an escape, as above, founded on the supposition gathered from the discourse, viz., that there were seventeen bearded men there; and therefore, without any more delay, I went to work with Friday to find out a great tree proper to fell, and make a large piragua or canoe to undertake the voyage. There were trees enough in the island to have built a little fleet, not of piraguas and canoes, but even of good large vessels. But the main thing I looked at was to get one so near the water that we might launch it when it was made, to avoid the mistake I committed at first. At last, Friday pitched upon a tree, for I found he knew much better than I what kind of wood was fittest for it; nor can I tell, to this day, what wood to call the tree we cut down, except that it was very like the tree we

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 93 call fustic, or between that and the Nicaragua wood, for it was much of the same color and smell. Friday was for burning the hollow or cavity of this tree out, to make it for a boat. But I showed him how rather to cut it out with tools, which after I showed him how to use, he did very handily; and in about a month’s hard labour, we finished it and made it very handsome, especially when with our axes, which I showed him how to handle, we cut and hewed the outside into the true shape of a boat; after this, however, it cost us near a fortnight’s time to get her along, as it were, inch by inch, upon great rollers into the water. But when she was in, she would have carried twenty men with great ease. When she was in the water, and though she was so big, it amazed me to see with what dexterity and how swift my man Friday would manage her, turn her, and paddle her along; so I asked him if he would, and if we might venture over in her. “Yes,” he said, “he venture over in her very well, though great blow wind.” However, I had a further design that he knew nothing of, and that was to make a mast and sail, and to fit her with an anchor and cable. As to a mast, that was easy enough to get; so I pitched upon a straight young cedar tree, which I found near the place, and which there was great plenty of in the island; and I set Friday to work to cut it down, and gave him directions how to shape and order it. But as to the sail, that was my particular care; I knew I had old sails, or rather pieces of old sails, enough; but as I had had them now twenty-six years by me and had not been very careful to preserve them, not imagining that I should ever have this kind of use for them, I did not doubt but they were all rotten; and indeed most of them were so; however, I found two pieces which appeared pretty good, and with these I went to work, and with a great deal of pains, and awkward tedious stitching (you may be sure) for want of needles, I at length made a three-cornered ugly thing, like what we call in England a shoulder-of-mutton sail, to go with a boom at bottom, and a little short sprit at the top, such as usually our ships’ long-boats sail with, and such as I best knew how to manage; because it was such a one as I had to the boat in which I made my escape from Barbary, as related in the first part of my story. I was near two months performing this last work, viz., rigging and fitting my mast and sails; for I finished them very complete, making a small stay, and a sail, or foresail to it, to assist, if we should turn to windward; and which was more than all, I fixed a rudder to the stern of her, to steer with; and though I was but a bungling shipwright, yet as I knew the usefulness and even necessity of such a thing, I applied myself with so much

Daniel Defoe94 pains to do it that at last I brought it to pass, though considering the many dull contrivances I had for it that failed, I think it cost me almost as much labour as making the boat. After all this was done too, I had my man Friday to teach as to what belonged to the navigation of my boat; for though he knew very well how to paddle a canoe, he knew nothing what belonged to a sail and a rudder, and was the most amazed when he saw me work the boat to and again in the sea by the rudder, and how the sail jibed, and filled this way or that way, as the course we sailed changed; I say, when he saw this, he stood like one astonished and amazed. However, with a little use I made all these things familiar to him; and he became an expert sailor, except that as to the compass, I could make him understand very little of that. On the other hand, as there was very little cloudy weather, and seldom or never any fogs in those parts, there was the less occasion for a compass, seeing the stars were always to be seen by night and the shore by day, except in the rainy seasons, and then nobody cared to stir abroad, either by land or sea. I was now entered on the seven and twentieth year of my captivity in this place; though the three last years that I had this creature with me ought rather to be left out of the account, my habitation being quite of another kind than in all the rest of the time. I kept the anniversary of my landing here with the same thankfulness to God for His mercies as at first; and if I had such cause of acknowledgement at first, I had much more so now, having such additional testimonies of the care of Providence over me, and the great hopes I had of being effectually and speedily delivered; for I had an invincible impression upon my thoughts that my deliverance was at hand, and that I should not be another year in this place. However, I went on with my husbandry, digging, planting, fencing, as usual; I gathered and cured my grapes, and did every necessary thing, as before. The rainy season was in the meantime upon me, when I kept more within doors than at other times; so I had stowed our new vessel as secure as we could, bringing her up into the creek, where, as I said in the beginning, I landed my rafts from the ship and, hauling her up to the shore, at high-water mark, I made my man Friday dig a little dock, just big enough to hold her, and just deep enough to give her water enough to float in; and then when the tide was out, we made a strong dam across the end of it, to keep the water out; and so she lay dry, as to the tide, from the sea; and to keep the rain off, we laid a great many boughs of trees so thick that she was as well thatched as a house; and thus we waited for the months of November and December, in which I designed to make my adventure.

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 95 WE MARCH OUT AGAINST THE CANNIBALS When the settled season began to come in, as the thought of my design returned with the fair weather, I was preparing daily for the voyage; and the first thing I did was to lay by a certain quantity of provisions, being the stores for our voyage; and intended, in a week or a fortnight’s time, to open the dock and launch out our boat. I was busy one morning upon something of this kind, when I called to Friday, and bade him go to the sea-shore and see if he could find a turtle, or tortoise, a thing which we generally got once a week, for the sake of the eggs as well as the flesh. Friday had not been long gone when he came running back and flew over my outer wall, or fence, like one that felt not the ground, or the steps he set his feet on; and before I had time to speak to him, he cries out to me, “O Master! O Master! O sorrow! O bad!” “What’s the matter, Friday?” says I. “O yonder, there,” says he, “one, two, three canoe! one, two, three!” By his way of speaking, I concluded there were six; but on inquiry I found it was but three. “Well, Friday,” says I, “do not be frighted”; so I heartened him up as well as I could. However, I saw the poor fellow was most terribly scared; for nothing ran in his head but that they were come to look for him, and would cut him in pieces and eat him; and the poor fellow trembled so, that I scarce knew what to do with him. I comforted him as well as I could, and told him I was in as much danger as he, and that they would eat me as well as him; “but,” says I, “Friday, we must resolve to fight them; can you fight, Friday?” “Me shoot,” says he, “but there come many great number.” “No matter for that,” said I again, “our guns will fright them that we do not kill”; so I asked him, whether if I resolved to defend him, he would defend me, and stand by me, and do just as I bade him. He said, “Me die when you bid die, Master”; so I went and fetched a good dram of rum, and gave him; for I had been so good a husband of my rum, that I had a great deal left. When he had drunk it, I made him take the two fowling pieces, which we always carried, and load them with large swan-shot, as big as small pistol bullets; then I took four muskets, and loaded them with two slugs and five small bullets each; and my two pistols I loaded with a brace of bullets each. I hung my great sword, as usual, naked by my side, and gave Friday his hatchet. When I had thus prepared myself, I took my perspective-glass and went up to the side of the hill, to see what I could discover; and I found quickly, by my glass, that there were one-and-twenty savages, three prisoners, and three canoes; and that their whole business seemed to be

Daniel Defoe96 the triumphant banquet upon these three human bodies (a barbarous feast indeed), but nothing else more than, as I had observed, was usual with them. I observed also that they were landed, not where they had done when Friday made his escape, but nearer to my creek, where the shore was low, and where a thick wood came close almost down to the sea. This, with the abhorrence of the inhuman errand these wretches came about, filled me with such indignation that I came down again to Friday and told him I was resolved to go down to them, and kill them all; and asked him if he would stand by me. He was now gotten over his fright, and his spirits being a little raised with the dram I had given him, he was very cheerful, and told me, as before, he would die when I bade die. In this fit of fury, I took first and divided the arms which I had charged, as before, between us; I gave Friday one pistol to stick in his girdle, and three guns upon his shoulder; and I took one pistol, and the other three myself; and in this posture we marched out. I took a small bottle of rum in my pocket and gave Friday a large bag with more powder and bullet; and as to orders, I charged him to keep close behind me, and not to stir, or shoot, or do anything, till I bade him; and in the meantime not to speak a word. In this posture I fetched a compass to my right hand of near a mile, as well to get over the creek, as to get into the wood; so that I might come within shot of them before I should be discovered, which I had seen by my glass it was easy to do. While I was making this march, my former thoughts returning, I began to abate my resolution; I do not mean that I entertained any fear of their number; for as they were naked, unarmed wretches, ’tis certain I was superior to them; nay, though I had been alone; but it occurred to my thoughts what call, what occasion, much less what necessity, I was in to go and dip my hands in blood, to attack people who had neither done or intended me any wrong; who, as to me, were innocent and whose barbarous customs were their own disaster, being in them a token indeed of God’s having left them, with the other nations of that part of the world, to such stupidity and to such inhuman courses; but did not call me to take upon me to be a judge of their actions, much less an executioneer of His Justice; that whenever He thought fit, He would take the cause into His own hands, and by national vengeance punish them as a people for national crimes; but that, in the meantime, it was none of my business; that it was true, Friday might justify it, because he was a declared enemy, and in a state of war with those very particular people; and it was lawful for

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 97 him to attack them; but I could not say the same with respect to me. These things were so warmly pressed upon my thoughts all the way as I went that I resolved I would only go and place myself near them, that I might observe their barbarous feast and that I would act then as God should direct; but that unless something offered that was more a call to me than yet I knew of, I would not meddle with them. With this resolution I entered the wood, and, with all possible wariness and silence (Friday following close at my heels) I marched till I came to the skirt of the wood, on the side which was next to them; only that one corner of the wood lay between me and them; here I called softly to Friday, and showing him a great tree, which was just at the corner of the wood, I bade him go to the tree, and bring me word if he could see there plainly what they were doing; he did so, and came immediately back to me and told me they might be plainly viewed there; that they were all about their fire, eating the flesh of one of their prisoners; and that another lay bound upon the sand, a little from them, which he said they would kill next; and which fired all the very soul within me. He told me it was not one of their nation, but one of the bearded men, whom he had told me of, that came to their country in the boat. I was filled with horror at the very naming the white bearded man, and, going to the tree, I saw plainly by my glass a white man who lay upon the beach of the sea, with his hands and his feet tied with flags, or things like rushes, and that he was a European and had clothes on. There was another tree, and a little thicket beyond it, about fifty yards nearer to them than the place where I was, which, by going a little way about, I saw I might come at undiscovered, and that then I should be within half shot of them; so I withheld my passion, though I was indeed enraged to the highest degree, and going back about twenty paces, I got behind some bushes, which held all the way, till I came to the other tree; and then I came to the little rising ground, which gave me a full view of them, at the distance of about eighty yards. I had now not a moment to lose; for nineteen of the dreadful wretches sat upon the ground, all close huddled together, and had just sent the other two to butcher the poor Christian and bring him, perhaps limb by limb, to their fire, and they were stooped down to untie the bands at his feet. I turned to Friday. “Now, Friday,” said I, “do as I bid thee.” Friday said he would. “Then, Friday,” says I, “do exactly as you see me do; fail in nothing.” So I set down one of the muskets and the fowling piece upon the ground, and Friday did the like by his; and with the other musket I

Daniel Defoe98 took my aim at the savages, bidding him do the like; then asking him if he was ready, he said, “Yes.” “Then fire at them,” said I; and the same moment I fired also. Friday took his aim so much better than I that on the side that he shot he killed two of them and wounded three more; and on my side, I killed one and wounded two. They were, you may be sure, in a dreadful consternation; and all of them who were not hurt jumped up upon their feet, but did not immediately know which way to run or which way to look; for they knew not from whence their destruction came. Friday kept his eyes close upon me, that, as I had bade him, he might observe what I did; so, as soon as the first shot was made, I threw down the piece, and took up the fowling piece, and Friday did the like; he sees me cock and present; he did the same again. “Are you ready, Friday?” said I. “Yes,” says he. “Let fly, then,” says I, “in the name of God!” and with that I fired again among the amazed wretches, and so did Friday; and as our pieces were now loaden with what I called swan-shot, or small pistol bullets, we found only two drop; but so many were wounded that they ran about yelling and screaming like mad creatures, all bloody, and miserably wounded most of them; whereof three more fell quickly after, though not quite dead. “Now, Friday,” says I, laying down the discharged pieces and taking up the musket, which was yet loaden, “follow me,” says I, which he did, with a great deal of courage; upon which I rushed out of the wood and showed myself, and Friday close at my foot; as soon as I perceived they saw me, I shouted as loud as I could and bade Friday do so too; and running as fast as I could, which, by the way, was not very fast, being loaden with arms as I was, I made directly towards the poor victim, who was, as I said, lying upon the beach, or shore, between the place where they sat and the sea; the two butchers, who were just going to work with him, had left him at the surprise of our first fire and fled in a terrible fright to the seaside and had jumped into a canoe, and three more of the rest made the same way; I turned to Friday and bade him step forwards and fire at them. He understood me immediately, and running about forty yards to be near them, he shot at them, and I thought he had killed them all, for I saw them all fall of a heap into the boat; though I saw two of them up again quickly. However, he killed two of them and wounded the third, so that he lay down in the bottom of the boat, as if he had been dead. While my man Friday fired at them, I pulled out my knife and cut the flags that bound the poor victim; and, loosing his hands and feet, I lifted him up and asked him in the Portuguese tongue what he was. He an-

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 99 swered in Latin, “Christianus”; but was so weak and faint that he could scarce stand or speak; I took my bottle out of my pocket and gave it him, making signs that he should drink, which he did; and I gave him a piece of bread, which he ate; then I asked him what countryman he was. And he said, “Espagniole”; and being a little recovered, let me know by all the signs he could possibly make how much he was in my debt for his deliverance. “Seignior,” said I, with as much Spanish as I could make up, “we will talk afterwards, but we must fight now; if you have any strength left, take this pistol and sword and lay about you.” He took them very thankfully, and no sooner had he the arms in his hands, but as if they had put new vigour into him, he flew upon his murderers like a fury, and had cut two of them in pieces in an instant; for the truth is, as the whole was a surprise to them, so the poor creatures were so much frighted with the noise of our pieces that they fell down for mere amazement and fear and had no more power to attempt their own escape than their flesh had to resist our shot; and that was the case of those five that Friday shot at in the boat; for as three of them fell with the hurt they received, so the other two fell with the fright. I kept my piece in my hand still, without firing, being willing to keep my charge ready, because I had given the Spaniard my pistol and sword; so I called to Friday and bade him run up to the tree from whence we first fired, and fetch the arms which lay there that had been discharged, which he did with great swiftness; and then giving him my musket, I sat down myself to load all the rest again, and bade them come to me when they wanted. While I was loading these pieces, there happened a fierce engagement between the Spaniard and one of the savages, who made at him with one of their great wooden swords, the same weapon that was to have killed him before, if I had not prevented it. The Spaniard, who was as bold and as brave as could be imagined, though weak, had fought this Indian a good while, and had cut him two great wounds on his head; but the savage being a stout lusty fellow, closing in with him, had thrown him down, being faint, and was wringing my sword out of his hand, when the Spaniard, though undermost, wisely quitting the sword, drew the pistol from his girdle, shot the savage through the body, and killed him upon the spot, before I, who was running to help him, could come near him. Friday, being now left to his liberty, pursued the flying wretches with no weapon in his hand but his hatchet; and with that he dispatched those three, who, as I said before, were wounded at first and fallen, and all the

Daniel Defoe100 rest he could come up with; and the Spaniard coming to me for a gun, I gave him one of the fowling pieces, with which he pursued two of the savages, and wounded them both; but as he was not able to run, they both got from him into the wood, where Friday pursued them and killed one of them; but the other was too nimble for him; and though he was wounded, yet had plunged himself into the sea, and swam with all his might off to those two who were left in the canoe, which three in the canoe, with one wounded, who we know not whether he died or no, were all that escaped our hands of one-and-twenty. The account of the rest is as follows: 3 killed at our first shot from the tree. 2 killed at the next shot. 2 killed by Friday in the boat. 2 killed by ditto, of those at first wounded. 1 killed by ditto in the wood. 3 killed by the Spaniard. 4 killed, being found dropped here and there of their wounds, or killed by Friday in his chase of them. 4 escaped in the boat, whereof one wounded, if not dead. 21 in all. Those that were in the canoe worked hard to get out of gunshot; and though Friday made two or three shot at them, I did not find that he hit any of them. Friday would fain have had me take one of their canoes and pursue them; and indeed I was very anxious about their escape, lest, carrying the news home to their people, they should come back perhaps with two or three hundred of their canoes and devour us by mere multitude; so I consented to pursue them by sea, and running to one of their canoes, I jumped in and bade Friday follow me; but when I was in the canoe, I was surprised to find another poor creature lie there alive, bound hand and foot, as the Spaniard was, for the slaughter, and almost dead with fear, not knowing what the matter was; for he had not been able to look up over the side of the boat, he was tied so hard, neck and heels, and had been tied so long that he had really but little life in him. I immediately cut the twisted flags, or rushes, which they had bound him with, and would have helped him up; but he could not stand or speak, but groaned most piteously, believing, it seems, still that he was only unbound in order to be killed. When Friday came to him, I bade him speak to him and tell him of his deliverance, and pulling out my bottle, made him give the poor wretch a dram, which, with the news of his being delivered, revived him,

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 101 and he sat up in the boat; but when Friday came to hear him speak, and looked in his face, it would have moved anyone to tears, to have seen how Friday kissed him, embraced him, hugged him, cried, laughed, holloed, jumped about, danced, sang, then cried again, wrung his hands, beat his own face and head, and then sang and jumped about again, like a distracted creature. It was a good while before I could make him speak to me, or tell me what was the matter; but when he came a little to himself he told me that it was his father. It is not easy for me to express how it moved me to see what ecstasy and filial affection had worked in this poor savage, at the sight of his father and of his being delivered from death; nor indeed can I describe half the extravagances of his affection after this; for he went into the boat and out of the boat a great many times. When he went in to him, he would sit down by him, open his breast, and hold his father’s head close to his bosom, half an hour together, to nourish it; then he took his arms and ankles, which were numbed and stiff with the binding, and chafed and rubbed them with his hands; and I, perceiving what the case was, gave him some rum out of my bottle to rub them with, which did them a great deal of good. This action put an end to our pursuit of the canoe with the other savages, who were now gotten almost out of sight; and it was happy for us that we did not; for it blew so hard within two hours after, and before they could be gotten a quarter of their way, and continued blowing so hard all night, and that from the northwest, which was against them, that I could not suppose their boat could live, or that they ever reached to their own coast. But to return to Friday; he was so busy about his father that I could not find in my heart to take him off for some time. But after I thought he could leave him a little, I called him to me, and he came jumping and laughing, and pleased to the highest extreme; then I asked him if he had given his father any bread. He shook his head and said, “None; ugly dog eat all up self.” So I gave him a cake of bread out of a little pouch I carried on purpose; I also gave him a dram for himself, but he would not taste it but carried it to his father. I had in my pocket also two or three bunches of my raisins, so I gave him a handful of them for his father. He had no sooner given his father these raisins but I saw him come out of the boat and run away, as if he had been bewitched, he ran at such a rate; for he was the swiftest fellow of his foot that ever I saw; I say, he ran at such a rate that he was out of sight, as it were, in an instant; and though I called, and holloed, too, after him, it was all one, away he went, and in a

Daniel Defoe102 quarter of an hour I saw him come back again, though not so fast as he went; and as he came nearer, I found his pace was slacker because he had something in his hand. When he came up to me, I found he had been quite home for an earthen jug or pot to bring his father some fresh water, and that he had got two more cakes or loaves of bread. The bread he gave me, but the water he carried to his father. However, as I was very thirsty too, I took a little sup of it. This water revived his father more than all the rum or spirits I had given him, for he was just fainting with thirst. When his father had drunk, I called to him to know if there was any water left; he said “Yes”; and I bade him give it to the poor Spaniard, who was in as much want of it as his father; and I sent one of the cakes that Friday brought to the Spaniard too, who was indeed very weak, and was reposing himself upon a green place under the shade of a tree, and whose limbs were also very stiff, and very much swelled with the rude bandage he had been tied with. When I saw that, upon Friday’s coming to him with the water, he sat up and drank, and took the bread and began to eat, I went to him and gave him a handful of raisins; he looked up in my face with all the tokens of gratitude and thankfulness that could appear in any countenance, but was so weak, notwithstanding he had so exerted himself in the fight that he could not stand up upon his feet; he tried to do it two or three times, but was really not able, his ankles were so swelled and so painful to him; so I bade him sit still, and caused Friday to rub his ankles and bathe them with rum, as he had done his father’s. I observed the poor affectionate creature, every two minutes or perhaps less, all the while he was here, turned his head about to see if his father was in the same place and posture as he left him sitting; and at last he found he was not to be seen; at which he started up, and without speaking a word, flew with that swiftness to him, that one could scarce perceive his feet to touch the ground as he went. But when he came, he only found he had laid himself down to ease his limbs; so Friday came back to me presently, and I then spoke to the Spaniard to let Friday help him up if he could and lead him to the boat, and then he should carry him to our dwelling, where I would take care of him. But Friday, a lusty strong fellow, took the Spaniard quite up upon his back and carried him away to the boat and set him down softly upon the side, or gunnel, of the canoe, with his feet in the inside of it, and then lifted him quite in and set him close to his father, and presently stepping out again, launched the boat off, and paddled it along the shore faster than I could walk, though

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 103 the wind blew pretty hard too; so he brought them both safe into our creek; and leaving them in the boat, runs away to fetch the other canoe. As he passed me, I spoke to him, and asked him whither he went; he told me, “Go fetch more boat”; so away he went, like the wind; for sure never man or horse ran like him, and he had the other canoe in the creek almost as soon as I got to it by land; so he wafted me over, and then went to help our new guests out of the boat, which he did; but they were neither of them able to walk; so that poor Friday knew not what to do. To remedy this, I went to work in my thought, and calling to Friday to bid them sit down on the bank while he came to me, I soon made a kind of hand-barrow to lay them on, and Friday and I carried them up both together upon it between us. But when we got them to the outside of our wall, or fortification, we were at a worse loss than before; for it was impossible to get them over, and I was resolved not to break it down. So I set to work again; and Friday and I, in about two hours’ time, made a very handsome tent, covered with old sails, and above that with boughs of trees, being in the space without our outward fence, and between that and the grove of young wood which I had planted. And here we made them two beds of such things as I had, viz., of good rice straw, with blankets laid upon it to lie on, and another to cover them, on each bed. My island was now peopled, and I thought myself very rich in subjects; and it was a merry reflection, which I frequently made, how like a king I looked. First of all, the whole country was my own mere property, so that I had an undoubted right of dominion. Secondly, my people were perfectly subjected. I was absolute lord and lawgiver; they all owed their lives to me, and were ready to lay down their lives, if there had been occasion of it, for me. It was remarkable, too, we had but three subjects, and they were of three different religions. My man Friday was a Protestant, his father was a pagan and a cannibal, and the Spaniard was a Papist. However, I allowed liberty of conscience throughout my dominions. But this is by the way. WE PLAN A VOYAGE TO THE COLONIES OF AMERICA As soon as I had secured my two weak rescued prisoners, and given them shelter and a place to rest them upon, I began to think of making some provision for them. And the first thing I did, I ordered Friday to take a yearling goat, betwixt a kid and a goat, out of my particular flock, to be killed; when I cut off the hinder quarter, and chopping it into small pieces, I set Friday to work to boiling and stewing, and made them a

Daniel Defoe104 very good dish, I assure you, of flesh and broth, having put some barley and rice also into the broth; and as I cooked it without doors, for I made no fire within my inner wall, so I carried it all into the new tent; and having set a table there for them, I sat down and ate my own dinner also with them, and, as well as I could, cheered them and encouraged them; Friday being my interpreter, especially to his father, and indeed to the Spaniard too; for the Spaniard spoke the language of the savages pretty well. After we had dined, or rather supped, I ordered Friday to take one of the canoes, and go and fetch our muskets and other firearms, which for want of time we had left upon the place of battle; and the next day I ordered him to go and bury the dead bodies of the savages, which lay open to the sun, and would presently be offensive; and I also ordered him to bury the horrid remains of their barbarous feast, which I knew were pretty much, and which I could not think of doing myself; nay, I could not bear to see them, if I went that way. All of which he punctually performed, and defaced the very appearance of the savages being there; so that when I went again I could scarce know where it was, otherwise than by the corner of the wood pointing to the place. I then began to enter into a little conversation with my two new subjects; and first I set Friday to inquire of his father what he thought of the escape of the savages in that canoe, and whether we might expect a return of them with a power too great for us to resist. His first opinion was that the savages in the boat never could live out the storm which blew that night they went off, but must of necessity be drowned or driven south to those other shores, where they were as sure to be devoured as they were to be drowned if they were cast away; but as to what they would do if they came safe on shore, he said he knew not; but it was his opinion that they were so dreadfully frighted with the manner of their being attacked, the noise and the fire, that he believed they would tell their people they were all killed by thunder and lightning, not by the hand of man, and that the two which appeared, viz., Friday and me, were two heavenly spirits or furies come down to destroy them, and not men with weapons. This he said he knew, because he heard them all cry out so in their language to one another, for it was impossible to them to conceive that a man could dart fire and speak thunder and kill at a distance without lifting up the hand, as was done now. And this old savage was in the right; for, as I understood since by other hands, the savages never attempted to go over to the island afterwards; they were so terrified with the accounts given by those four men (for it seems they did escape

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 105 the sea) that they believed whoever went to that enchanted island would be destroyed with fire from the gods. This, however, I knew not, and therefore was under continual apprehensions for a good while, and kept always upon my guard, me and all my army; for as we were now four of us, I would have ventured upon a hundred of them fairly in the open field at any time. In a little time, however, no more canoes appearing, the fear of their coming wore off, and I began to take my former thoughts of a voyage to the main into consideration; being likewise assured by Friday’s father that I might depend upon good usage from their nation on his account, if I would go. But my thoughts were a little suspended when I had a serious discourse with the Spaniard, and when I understood that there were sixteen more of his countrymen and Portuguese, who, having been cast away and made their escape to that side, lived there at peace indeed with the savages, but were very sore put to it for necessaries, and indeed for life. I asked him all the particulars of their voyage, and found they were a Spanish ship bound from the Rio de la Plata to Havana, being directed to leave their loading there, which was chiefly hides and silver, and to bring back what European goods they could meet with there; that they had five Portuguese seamen on board, whom they took out of another wreck; that five of their own men were drowned when the first ship was lost, and that these escaped through infinite dangers and hazards, and arrived, almost starved, on the cannibal coast, where they expected to have been devoured every moment. He told me that they had some arms with them, but they were perfectly useless, for that they had neither powder or ball, the washing of the sea having spoiled all their powder but a little, which they used at their first landing to provide themselves some food. I asked him what he thought would become of them there, and if they had formed no design of making any escape. He said they had many consultations about it, but that having neither vessel, or tools to build one, or provisions of any kind, their councils always ended in tears and despair. I asked him how he thought they would receive a proposal from me, which might tend towards an escape; and whether, if they were all here, it might not be done. I told him with freedom, I feared mostly their treachery and ill usage of me, if I put my life in their hands; for that gratitude was no inherent virtue in the nature of man; nor did men always square their dealings by the obligations they had received so much

Daniel Defoe106 as they did by the advantages they expected. I told him it would be very hard that I should be the instrument of their deliverance and that they should afterwards make me their prisoner in New Spain, where an Englishman was certain to be made a sacrifice, what necessity or what accident soever brought him thither. And that I had rather be delivered up to the savages and be devoured alive than fall into the merciless claws of the priests and be carried into the Inquisition. I added that otherwise I was persuaded, if they were all here, we might, with so many hands, build a bark large enough to carry us all away, either to Brazil southward, or to the islands or Spanish coast northward. But that if in requital they should, when I had put weapons into their hands, carry me by force among their own people, I might be ill used for my kindness to them, and make my case worse than it was before. He answered with a great deal of candour and ingenuity that their condition was so miserable, and they were so sensible of it, that he believed they would abhor the thought of using any man unkindly that should contribute to their deliverance; and that, if I pleased, he would go to them with the old man and discourse with them about it, and return again and bring me their answer. That he would make conditions with them upon their solemn oath, that they should be absolutely under my leading, as their commander and captain; and that they should swear upon the Holy Sacraments and the Gospel to be true to me and to go to such Christian country as that I should agree to, and no other; and to be directed wholly and absolutely by my orders, till they were landed safely in such country as I intended; and that he would bring a contract from them, under their hands, for that purpose. Then he told me he would first swear to me himself that he would never stir from me as long as he lived, till I gave him orders; and that he would take my side to the last drop of his blood, if there should happen the least breach of faith among his countrymen. He told me they were all of them very civil honest men, and they were under the greatest distress imaginable, having neither weapons or clothes, nor any food, but at the mercy and discretion of the savages; out of all hopes of ever returning to their own country; and that he was sure, if I would undertake their relief, they would live and die by me. [The Spaniard and Friday’s father sail to the mainland.] WE QUELL A MUTINY It was no less than eight days I had waited for them, when a strange and unforeseen accident intervened, of which the like has not perhaps

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 107 been heard in history. I was fast asleep in my hutch one morning, when my man Friday came running in to me and called aloud, “Master, master, they are come, they are come!” I jumped up, and regardless of danger I went out, as soon as I could get my clothes on, through my little grove, which, by the way, was by this time grown to be a very thick wood; I say, regardless of danger, I went without my arms, which was not my custom to do. But I was surprised when, turning my eyes to the sea, I presently saw a boat at about a league and half’s distance, standing in for the shore, with a shoulder-of-mutton sail, as they call it, and the wind blowing pretty fair to bring them in; also I observed presently that they did not come from that side which the shore lay on, but from the southermost end of the island. Upon this I called Friday in, and bid him lie close, for these were not the people we looked for, and that we might not know yet whether they were friends or enemies. In the next place, I went in to fetch my perspective-glass, to see what I could make of them; and having taken the ladder out, I climbed up to the top of the hill, as I used to do when I was apprehensive of anything, and to take my view the plainer without being discovered. I had scarce set my foot on the hill, when my eye plainly discovered a ship lying at an anchor at about two leagues and a half’s distance from me, south-southeast, but not above a league and a half from the shore. By my observation it appeared plainly to be an English ship, and the boat appeared to be an English long-boat. I cannot express the confusion I was in, though the joy of seeing a ship, and one whom I had reason to believe was manned by my own countrymen, and consequently friends, was such as I cannot describe; but yet I had some secret doubts hung about me, I cannot tell from whence they came, bidding me keep upon my guard. In the first place, it occurred to me to consider what business an English ship could have in that part of the world, since it was not the way to or from any part of the world where the English had any traffic; and I knew there had been no storms to drive them in there, as in distress; and that if they were English really, it was most probable that they were here upon no good design; and that I had better continue as I was than fall into the hands of thieves and murderers. Let no man despise the secret hints and notices of danger, which sometimes are given him, when he may think there is no possibility of its being real. That such hints and notices are given us, I believe few that have made any observations of things can deny; that they are certain discoveries of an invisible world, and a converse of spirits, we cannot doubt;

Daniel Defoe108 and if the tendency of them seems to be to warn us of danger, why should we not suppose they are from some friendly agent (whether supreme, or inferior and subordinate, is not the question) and that they are given for our good? The present question abundantly confirms me in the justice of this reasoning; for had I not been made cautious by this secret admonition, come it from whence it will, I had been undone inevitably, and in a far worse condition than before, as you will see presently. I had not kept myself long in this posture but I saw the boat draw near the shore, as if they looked for a creek to thrust in at for the convenience of landing; however, as they did not come quite far enough, they did not see the little inlet where I formerly landed my rafts, but ran their boat on shore upon the beach, at about half a mile from me, which was very happy for me; for otherwise they would have landed just, as I may say, at my door, and would soon have beaten me out of my castle and perhaps have plundered me of all I had. When they were on shore, I was fully satisfied that they were Englishmen, at least most of them; one or two I thought were Dutch, but it did not prove so. There were in all eleven men, whereof three of them, I found, were unarmed, and, as I thought, bound; and when the first four or five of them were jumped on shore, they took those three out of the boat as prisoners. One of the three I could perceive using the most passionate gestures of entreaty, affliction, and despair, even to a kind of extravagance; the other two, I could perceive, lifted up their hands sometimes, and appeared concerned indeed, but not to such a degree as the first. I was perfectly confounded at the sight, and knew not what the meaning of it should be. Friday called out to me in English, as well as he could, “O master! you see English mans eat prisoner as well as savage mans.” “Why,” says I, “Friday, do you think they are a-going to eat them then?” “Yes,” says Friday, “they will eat them.” “No, no,” says I, “Friday, I am afraid they will murder them, indeed, but you may be sure they will not eat them.” All this while I had no thought of what the matter really was, but stood trembling with the horror of the sight, expecting every moment when the three prisoners should be killed; nay, once I saw one of the villains lift up his arm with a great cutlass (as the seamen call it), or sword, to strike one of the poor men; and I expected to see him fall every moment, at which all the blood in my body seemed to run chill in my veins. I wished heartily now for my Spaniard, and the savage that was gone

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 109 with him; or that I had any way to have come undiscovered within shot of them, that I might have rescued the three men; for I saw no firearms they had among them; but it fell out to my mind another way. After I had observed the outrageous usage of the three men by the insolent seamen, I observed the fellows run scattering about the land, as if they wanted to see the country. I observed that the three other men had liberty to go also where they pleased; but they sat down all three upon the ground, very pensive, and looked like men in despair. This put me in mind of the first time when I came on shore, and began to look about me, how I gave myself over for lost, how wildly I looked round me, what dreadful apprehensions I had, and how I lodged in the tree all night for fear of being devoured by wild beasts. As I knew nothing that night of the supply I was to receive by the providential driving of the ship nearer the land by the storms and tide, by which I have since been so long nourished and supported; so these three poor desolate men knew nothing how certain of deliverance and supply they were, how near it was to them, and how effectually and really they were in a condition of safety at the same time that they thought themselves lost and their case desperate. So little do we see before us in the world, and so much reason have we to depend cheerfully upon the great Maker of the world, that He does not leave His creatures so absolutely destitute but that in the worst circumstances they have always something to be thankful for, and sometimes are nearer their deliverance than they imagine; nay, are even brought to their deliverance by the means by which they seem to be brought to their destruction. It was just at the top of high water when these people came on shore, and while partly they stood parleying with the prisoners they brought, and partly while they rambled about to see what kind of a place they were in, they had carelessly stayed till the tide was spent, and the water was ebbed considerably away, leaving their boat aground. They had left two men in the boat, who, as I found afterwards, having drunk a little too much brandy, fell asleep; however, one of them waking sooner than the other, and finding the boat too fast aground for him to stir it, holloed for the rest, who were straggling about, upon which they all soon came to the boat; but it was past all their strength to launch her, the boat being very heavy, and the shore on that side being a soft oozy sand, almost like a quicksand. In this condition, like true seamen, who are perhaps the least of all mankind given to forethought, they gave it over, and away they strolled

Daniel Defoe110 about the country again; and I heard one of them say aloud to another (calling them off from the boat), “Why, let her alone, Jack, can’t ye? she’ll float next tide”; by which I was fully confirmed in the main inquiry of what countrymen they were. All this while I kept myself very close, not once daring to stir out of my castle, any farther than to my place of observation near the top of the hill; and very glad I was to think how well it was fortified. I knew it was no less than ten hours before the boat could be on float again, and by that time it would be dark, and I might be at more liberty to see their motions, and to hear their discourse, if they had any. In the meantime I fitted myself up for a battle, as before; though with more caution, knowing I had to do with another kind of enemy than I had at first. I ordered Friday also, whom I had made an excellent marksman with his gun, to load himself with arms. I took myself two fowling pieces, and I gave him three muskets; my figure, indeed, was very fierce; I had my formidable goatskin coat on, with the great cap I have mentioned, a naked sword by my side, two pistols in my belt, and a gun upon each shoulder. It was my design, as I said above, not to have made any attempt till it was dark. But about two o’clock, being the heat of the day, I found that, in short, they were all gone straggling into the woods and, as I thought, were laid down to sleep. The three poor distressed men, too anxious for their condition to get any sleep, were, however, set down under the shelter of a great tree, at about a quarter of a mile from me, and, as I thought, out of sight of any of the rest. Upon this I resolved to discover myself to them and learn something of their condition. Immediately I marched in the figure as above, my man Friday at a good distance behind me, as formidable for his arms as I, but not making quite so staring a spectre-like figure as I did. I came as near them undiscovered as I could, and then before any of them saw me, I called aloud to them in Spanish, “What are ye, gentlemen?” They started up at the noise, but were ten times more confounded when they saw me, and the uncouth figure that I made. They made no answer at all, but I thought I perceived them just going to fly from me, when I spoke to them in English: “Gentlemen,” said I, “do not be surprised at me; perhaps you may have a friend near you when you did not expect it.” “He must be sent directly from Heaven then,” said one of them very gravely to me, and pulling off his hat at the same time to me, “for our condition is past the help of man.” “All help is from Heaven, sir,” said I. “But can you put a stranger in the way how to help you, for you

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 111 seem to me to be in some great distress? I saw you when you landed, and when you seemed to make applications to the brutes that came with you, I saw one of them lift up his sword to kill you.” The poor man, with tears running down his face, and trembling, looking like one astonished, returned, “Am I talking to God, or man! Is it a real man, or an angel!” “Be in no fear about that, sir,” said I; “if God had sent an angel to relieve you, he would have come better clothed, and armed after another manner than you see me in; pray lay aside your fears; I am a man, an Englishman, and disposed to assist you, you see; I have one servant only; we have arms and ammunition; tell us freely, can we serve you?—What is your case?” “Our case,” said he, “sir, is too long to tell you, while our murderers are so near; but in short, sir, I was commander of that ship; my men have mutinied against me, they have been hardly prevailed on not to murder me, and at last have set me on shore in this desolate place, with these two men with me, one my mate, the other a passenger, where we expected to perish, believing the place to be uninhabited, and know not yet what to think of it.” “Where are those brutes, your enemies?” said I. “Do you know where they are gone?” “There they lie, sir,” said he, pointing to a thicket of trees; “my heart trembles for fear they have seen us and heard you speak; if they have, they will certainly murder us all.” “Have they any firearms?” said I. He answered they had only two pieces, and one which they left in the boat. “Well then,” said I, “leave the rest to me; I see they are all asleep, it is an easy thing to kill them all; but shall we rather take them prisoners?” He told me there were two desperate villains among them that it was scarce safe to show any mercy to; but if they were secured, he believed all the rest would return to their duty. I asked him which they were. He told me he could not at that distance describe them, but he would obey my orders in anything I would direct. “Well,” says I, “let us retreat out of their view or hearing, lest they awake, and we will resolve further”; so they willingly went back with me, till the woods covered us from them. “Look you, sir,” said I, “if I venture upon your deliverance, are you willing to make two conditions with me?” He anticipated my proposals by telling me that both he and the ship, if recovered, should be wholly directed and commanded by me in everything; and if the ship was not recovered, he would live and die with me in what part of the world soever I would send him; and the two other men said the same. “Well,” says I, “my conditions are but two. 1. That while you stay on this island with me, you will not pretend to any authority here; and if I put

Daniel Defoe112 arms into your hands, you will upon all occasions give them up to me and do no prejudice to me or mine upon this island, and in the meantime, be governed by my orders. “2. That if the ship is or may be recovered, you will carry me and my man to England passage-free.” He gave me all the assurances that the invention and faith of man could devise that he would comply with these most reasonable demands, and besides would owe his life to me and acknowledge it upon all occasions as long as he lived. “Well then,” said I, “here are three muskets for you, with powder and ball; tell me next what you think is proper to be done.” He showed all the testimony of his gratitude that he was able, but offered to be wholly guided by me. I told him I thought it was hard venturing anything; but the best method I could think of was to fire upon them at once, as they lay; and if any was not killed at the first volley, and offered to submit, we might save them, and so put it wholly upon God’s Providence to direct the shot. He said very modestly that he was loath to kill them, if he could help it, but that those two were incorrigible villains and had been the authors of all the mutiny in the ship, and if they escaped, we should be undone still; for they would go on board and bring the whole ship’s company, and destroy us all. “Well then,” says I, “necessity legitimates my advice; for it is the only way to save our lives.” However, seeing him still cautious of shedding blood, I told him they should go themselves, and manage as they found convenient. In the middle of this discourse we heard some of them awake, and soon after, we saw two of them on their feet. I asked him if either of them were of the men who he had said were the heads of the mutiny. He said, “No.” “Well then,” said I, “you may let them escape; and Providence seems to have wakened them on purpose to save themselves. Now,” says I, “if the rest escape you, it is your fault.” Animated with this, he took the musket I had given him in his hand, and a pistol in his belt, and his two comrades with him, with each man a piece in his hand. The two men who were with him, going first, made some noise, at which one of the seamen, who was awake, turned about, and seeing them coming cried out to the rest; but it was too late then, for the moment he cried out they fired; I mean the two men, the captain wisely reserving his own piece. They had so well aimed their shot at the men they knew that one of them was killed on the spot, and the other very much wounded; but not being dead, he started up upon his feet, and called eagerly for help to the other; but the captain, stepping to him,

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 113 told him ’twas too late to cry for help, he should call upon God to forgive his villainy, and with that word knocked him down with the stock of his musket, so that he never spoke more. There were three more in the company, and one of them was also slightly wounded. By this time I was come; and when they saw their danger, and that it was in vain to resist, they begged for mercy. The captain told them he would spare their lives, if they would give him any assurance of their abhorrence of the treachery they had been guilty of, and would swear to be faithful to him in recovering the ship and afterwards in carrying her back to Jamaica, from whence they came. They gave him all the protestations of their sincerity that could be desired, and he was willing to believe them, and spare their lives, which I was not against, only I obliged him to keep them bound hand and foot while they were upon the island. While this was doing, I sent Friday with the captain’s mate to the boat, with orders to secure her and bring away the oars and sail, which they did; and by and by, three straggling men, that were (happily for them) parted from the rest, came back upon hearing the guns fired, and seeing their captain, who before was their prisoner, now their conqueror, they submitted to be bound also; and so our victory was complete. It now remained that the captain and I should inquire into one another’s circumstances. I began first, and told him my whole history, which he heard with an attention even to amazement; and particularly at the wonderful manner of my being furnished with provisions and ammunition; and, indeed, as my story is a whole collection of wonders, it affected him deeply; but when he reflected from thence upon himself, and how I seemed to have been preserved there on purpose to save his life, the tears ran down his face, and he could not speak a word more. [With Crusoe’s help, the captain ends the mutiny.] WE SEIZE THE SHIP It now occurred to me that the time of our deliverance was come, and that it would be a most easy thing to bring these fellows in to be hearty in getting possession of the ship; so I retired in the dark from them, that they might not see what kind of a governor they had, and called the captain to me; when I called, as at a good distance, one of the men was ordered to speak again and say to the captain, “Captain, the commander calls for you”; and presently the captain replied, “Tell his excellency, I am just a-coming.” This more perfectly amused them, and they all believed that the commander was just by with his fifty men. Upon the captain’s coming to me, I told him my project for seizing

Daniel Defoe114 the ship, which he liked of wonderfully well, and resolved to put it in execution the next morning. But in order to execute it with more art, and security of success, I told him we must divide the prisoners, and that he should go and take Atkins and two more of the worst of them, and send them pinioned to the cave where the others lay. This was committed to Friday and the two men who came on shore with the captain. They conveyed them to the cave, as to a prison; and it was indeed a dismal place, especially to men in their condition. The other I ordered to my bower, as I called it, of which I have given a full description; and as it was fenced in, and they pinioned, the place was secure enough, considering they were upon their behaviour. To these in the morning I sent the captain, who was to enter into a parley with them, in a word, to try them, and tell me, whether he thought they might be trusted or no, to go on board and surprise the ship. He talked to them of the injury done him, of the condition they were brought to; and that though the governor had given them quarter for their lives, as to the present action, yet that if they were sent to England, they would all be hanged in chains, to be sure; but that if they would join in so just an attempt as to recover the ship, he would have the governor’s engagement for their pardon. Anyone may guess how readily such a proposal would be accepted by men in their condition; they fell down on their knees to the captain and promised with the deepest imprecations that they would be faithful to him to the last drop, and that they should owe their lives to him and would go with him all over the world; that they would own him for a father to them as long as they lived. “Well,” says the captain, “I must go and tell the governor what you say, and see what I can do to bring him to consent to it.” So he brought me an account of the temper he found them in; and that he verily believed they would be faithful. However, that we might be very secure, I told him he should go back again and choose out five of them, and tell them they might see that he did not want men; that he would take out those five to be his assistants, and that the governor would keep the other two and the three that were sent prisoners to the castle (my cave) as hostages, for the fidelity of those five; and that if they proved unfaithful in the execution, the five hostages should be hanged in chains alive upon the shore. This looked severe, and convinced them that the governor was in ear-

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 115 nest; however, they had no way left them but to accept it; and it was now the business of the prisoners, as much as of the captain, to persuade the other five to do their duty. Our strength was now thus ordered for the expedition. 1. The captain, his mate, and passenger. 2. Then the two prisoners of the first gang, to whom, having their characters from the captain, I had given their liberty, and trusted them with arms. 3. The other two, whom I had kept till now in my bower, pinioned; but, upon the captain’s motion, had now released. 4. These five released at last. So that they were twelve in all, besides five we kept prisoners in the cave, and the two hostages. I asked the captain if he was willing to venture with these hands on board the ship; for as for me and my man Friday, I did not think it was proper for us to stir, having seven men left behind, and it was employment enough for us to keep them asunder, and supply them with victuals. As to the five in the cave, I resolved to keep them fast; but Friday went in twice a day to them, to supply them with necessaries; and I made the other two carry provisions to a certain distance, where Friday was to take it. When I showed myself to the two hostages, it was with the captain, who told them I was the person the governor had ordered to look after them, and that it was the governor’s pleasure they should not stir anywhere but by my direction; that if they did, they should be fetched into the castle, and be laid in irons; so that as we never suffered them to see me as governor, so I now appeared as another person, and spoke of the governor, the garrison, the castle, and the like, upon all occasions. The captain now had no difficulty before him, but to furnish his two boats, stop the breach of one, and man them. He made his passenger captain of one, with four other men; and himself and his mate and five more went in the other. And they contrived their business very well, for they came up to the ship about midnight. As soon as they came within call of the ship, he made Robinson hail them and tell them they had brought off the men and the boat, but that it was a long time before they had found them, and the like; holding them in a chat till they came to the ship’s side; when the captain and the mate, entering first with their arms, immediately knocked down the second mate and carpenter with the butt-end of their muskets. Being very faithfully seconded by their men, they secured all the rest that were upon the main and quarter decks and began to fasten the hatches to keep them down who were below, when the other boat and their men, entering at the fore chains,

Daniel Defoe116 secured the forecastle of the ship and the scuttle which went down into the cook room, making three men they found there prisoners. When this was done, and all safe upon deck, the captain ordered the mate with three men to break into the roundhouse, where the new rebel captain lay, and having taken the alarm, was gotten up, and with two men and a boy had gotten firearms in their hands; and when the mate with a crow split open the door, the new captain and his men fired boldly among them and wounded the mate with a musket ball, which broke his arm, and wounded two more of the men, but killed nobody. The mate, calling for help, rushed, however, into the roundhouse, wounded as he was, and with his pistol shot the new captain through the head, the bullet entering at his mouth, and came out again behind one of his ears, so that he never spoke a word; upon which the rest yielded, and the ship was taken effectually, without any more lives lost. As soon as the ship was thus secured, the captain ordered seven guns to be fired, which was the signal agreed upon with me, to give me notice of his success, which you may be sure I was very glad to hear, having sat watching upon the shore for it till near two of the clock in the morning. Having thus heard the signal plainly, I laid me down; and it having been a day of great fatigue to me, I slept very sound, till I was something surprised with the noise of a gun; and presently starting up, I heard a man call me by the name of “Governor, Governor,” and presently I knew the captain’s voice, when, climbing up to the top of the hill, there he stood, and pointing to the ship, he embraced me in his arms. “My dear friend and deliverer,” says he, “there’s your ship, for she is all yours, and so are we and all that belong to her.” I cast my eyes to the ship, and there she rode within little more than half a mile of the shore; for they had weighed her anchor as soon as they were masters of her; and the weather being fair, had brought her to an anchor just against the mouth of the little creek; and the tide being up, the captain had brought the pinnace in near the place where I first landed my rafts, and so landed just at my door. I was at first ready to sink down with the surprise. For I saw my deliverance indeed visibly put into my hands, all things easy, and a large ship just ready to carry me away whither I pleased to go. At first, for some time, I was not able to answer him one word; but as he had taken me in his arms, I held fast by him or I should have fallen to the ground. He perceived the surprise, and immediately pulls a bottle out of his pocket, and gave me a dram of cordial, which he had brought on purpose for me; after I drank it, I sat down upon the ground; and though it

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 117 brought me to myself, yet it was a good while before I could speak a word to him. All this while the poor man was in as great an ecstasy as I, only not under any surprise, as I was; and he said a thousand kind tender things to me, to compose me and bring me to myself; but such was the flood of joy in my breast that it put all my spirits into confusion; at last it broke out into tears, and in a little while after I recovered my speech. Then I took my turn and embraced him as my deliverer, and we rejoiced together. I told him I looked upon him as a man sent from Heaven to deliver me, and that the whole transaction seemed to be a chain of wonders; that such things as these were the testimonies we had of a secret hand of Providence governing the world, and an evidence that the eyes of an infinite Power could search into the remotest corner of the world, and send help to the miserable whenever He pleased. I forgot not to lift up my heart in thankfulness to Heaven; and what heart could forbear to bless Him, who had not only in a miraculous manner provided for one in such a wilderness and in such a desolate condition, but from whom every deliverance must always b e acknowledged to proceed! When we had talked a while, the captain told me he had brought me some little refreshment, such as the ship afforded, and such as the wretches that had been so long his masters had not plundered him of. Upon this he called aloud to the boat, and bade his men bring the things ashore that were for the governor; and indeed it was a present, as if I had been one, not that was to be carried away along with them, but as if I had been to dwell upon the island still and they were to go without me. First, he had brought me a case of bottles full of excellent cordial waters, six large bottles of Madeira wine; the bottles held two quarts apiece; two pound of excellent good tobacco, twelve good pieces of the ship’s beef, and six pieces of pork, with a bag of peas, and about a hundred-weight of biscuit. He brought me also a box of sugar, a box of flour, a bag full of lemons, and two bottles of lime juice, and abundance of other things. But besides these, and what was a thousand times more useful to me, he brought me six clean new shirts, six very good neckcloths, two pair of gloves, one pair of shoes, a hat, and one pair of stockings, and a very good suit of clothes of his own, which had been worn but very little. In a word, he clothed me from head to foot. It was a very kind and agreeable present, as anyone may imagine, to one in my circumstances. But never was anything in the world of that

Daniel Defoe118 kind so unpleasant, awkward, and uneasy as it was to me to wear such clothes at their first putting on. After these ceremonies passed, and after all his good things were brought into my little apartment, we began to consult what was to be done with the prisoners we had; for it was worth considering whether we might venture to take them away with us or no, especially two of them, whom we knew to be incorrigible and refractory to the last degree; and the captain said he knew they were such rogues that there was no obliging them, and if he did carry them away, it must be in irons, as malefactors, to be delivered over to justice at the first English colony he could come at; and I found that the captain himself was very anxious about it. Upon this, I told him that if he desired it, I durst undertake to bring the two men he spoke of to make it their own request that he should leave them upon the island. “I should be very glad of that,” says the captain, “with all my heart.” “Well,” says I, “I will send for them up, and talk with them for you”; so I caused Friday and the two hostages, for they were now discharged, their comrades having performed their promise; I say, I caused them to go to the cave and bring up the five men, pinioned as they were, to the bower, and keep them there till I came. After some time I came thither dressed in my new habit, and now I was called governor again; being all met, and the captain with me, I caused the men to be brought before me, and I told them I had had a full account of their villainous behaviour to the captain, and how they had run away with the ship and were preparing to commit further robberies, but that Providence had ensnared them in their own ways and that they were fallen into the pit which they had digged for others. I let them know that by my direction the ship had been seized, that she lay now in the road, and they might see by and by that their new captain had received the reward of his villainy; for that they might see him hanging at the yard-arm. That as to them, I wanted to know what they had to say, why I should not execute them as pirates taken in the fact, as by my commission they could not doubt I had authority to do. One of them answered in the name of the rest that they had nothing to say but this, that when they were taken, the captain promised them their lives, and they humbly implored my mercy. But I told them I knew not what mercy to show them; for, as for myself, I had resolved to quit the island with all my men, and had taken passage with the captain to go for England. And as for the captain, he could not carry them to England other than as prisoners in irons, to be tried for mutiny and running

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 119 away with the ship; the consequence of which, they must needs know, would be the gallows; so that I could not tell which was best for them, unless they had a mind to take their fate in the island; if they desired that, I did not care, as I had liberty to leave it; I had some inclination to give them their lives, if they thought they could shift on shore. They seemed very thankful for it, said they would much rather venture to stay there than to be carried to England to be hanged; so I left it on that issue. However, the captain seemed to make some difficulty of it, as if he durst not leave them there. Upon this I seemed a little angry with the captain, and told him that they were my prisoners, not his; and that seeing I had offered them so much favour, I would be as good as my word; and that if he did not think fit to consent to it, I would set them at liberty, as I found them; and if he did not like it, he might take them again if he could catch them. Upon this they appeared very thankful, and I accordingly set them at liberty, and bade them retire into the woods, to the place whence they came, and I would leave them some firearms, some ammunition, and some directions how they should live very well, if they thought fit. Upon this I prepared to go on board the ship, but told the captain that I would stay that night to prepare my things, and desired him to go on board in the meantime, and keep all right in the ship, and send the boat on shore the next day for me; ordering him in the meantime to cause the new captain who was killed to be hanged at the yard-arm, that these men might see him. When the captain was gone, I sent for the men up to me to my apartment and entered seriously into discourse with them of their circumstances. I told them I thought they had made a right choice; that if the captain carried them away, they would certainly be hanged. I showed them the new captain hanging at the yard-arm of the ship, and told them they had nothing less to expect. When they had all declared their willingness to stay, I then told them I would let them into the story of my living there, and put them into the way of making it easy to them. Accordingly I gave them the whole history of the place and of my coming to it; showed them my fortifications, the way I made my bread, planted my corn, cured my grapes; and in a word, all that was necessary to make them easy. I told them the story also of the sixteen Spaniards that were to be expected; for whom I left a letter, and made them promise to treat them in common with themselves. I left them my firearms, viz., five muskets, three fowling pieces, and three swords. I had above a barrel and half of powder left; for after the

Daniel Defoe120 first year or two I used but little, and wasted none. I gave them a description of the way I managed the goats, and directions to milk and fatten them, and to make both butter and cheese. In a word, I gave them every part of my own story; and I told them I would prevail with the captain to leave them two barrels of gunpowder more and some garden seeds, which I told them I would have been very glad of; also I gave them the bag of peas which the captain had brought me to eat, and bade them be sure to sow and increase them. Having done all this, I left them the next day and went on board the ship. We prepared immediately to sail, but did not weigh that night. The next morning early, two of the five men came swimming to the ship’s side, and making a most lamentable complaint of the other three, begged to be taken into the ship, for God’s sake, for they should be murdered, and begged the captain to take them on board, though he hanged them immediately. Upon this the captain pretended to have no power without me; but after some difficulty, and after their solemn promises of amendment, they were taken on board, and were some time after soundly whipped and pickled; after which, they proved very honest and quiet fellows. Some time after this, the boat was ordered on shore, the tide being up, with the things promised to the men, to which the captain, at my intercession, caused their chests and clothes to be added, which they took and were very thankful for; I also encouraged them by telling them that if it lay in my way to send any vessel to take them in, I would not forget them. When I took leave of this island, I carried on board for relics the great goatskin cap I had made, my umbrella, and one of my parrots; also I forgot not to take the money I formerly mentioned, which had lain by me so long useless that it was grown rusty, or tarnished, and could hardly pass for silver, till it had been a little rubbed and handled; as also the money I found in the wreck of the Spanish ship. And thus I left the island, the 19th of December, as I found by the ship’s account, in the year 1686, after I had been upon it eight-and- twenty years, two months, and nineteen days; being delivered from this second captivity the same day of the month that I first made my escape in the barco-longo, from among the Moors of Sallee. In this vessel, after a long voyage, I arrived in England, the 11th of June, in the year 1687, having been thirty-and-five years absent. When I came to England, I was as perfect a stranger to all the world as if I had never been known there. My benefactor and faithful steward,

ROB I N SON CRU SO E 121 whom I had left in trust with my money, was alive, but had had great misfortunes in the world; was become a widow the second time, and very low in the world. I made her easy as to what she owed me, assuring her I would give her no trouble; but on the contrary, in gratitude to her former care and faithfulness to me, I relieved her as my little stock would afford, which at that time would indeed allow me to do but little for her; but I assured her I would never forget her former kindness to me; nor did I forget her, when I had sufficient to help her, as shall be observed in its place. I went down afterwards into Yorkshire; but my father was dead, and my mother and all the family extinct, except that I found two sisters, and two of the children of one of my brothers; and as I had been long ago given over for dead, there had been no provision made for me; so that, in a word, I found nothing to relieve or assist me; and that little money I had would not do much for me as to settling in the world. I met with one piece of gratitude indeed, which I did not expect; and this was that the master of the ship, whom I had so happily delivered, and by the same means saved the ship and cargo, having given a very handsome account to the owners of the manner how I had saved the lives of the men and the ship, they invited me to meet them, and some other merchants concerned, and all together made me a very handsome compliment upon the subject, and a present of almost two hundred pounds sterling. But after making several reflections upon the circumstances of my life, and how little way this would go towards settling me in the world, I resolved to go to Lisbon and see if I might not come by some information of the state of my plantation in Brazil, and of what was become of my partner, who I had reason to suppose had some years now given me over for dead. With this view I took shipping for Lisbon, where I arrived in April following; my man Friday accompanying me very honestly in all these ramblings, and proving a most faithful servant upon all occasions. [After various adventures, Crusoe finally returns to his home.] The foregoing is a selection from Daniel Defoe’s TH E STRANG E AND S U RPRI S I NG ADVE NTU RE S OF ROB INSON CRU SOE, OF YORK, MARINE R.

122 Rudyard Kipling 1865–1936 Rudyard Kipling was born in Bombay, India, December 30, 1865.His father, an artist, was later curator of the Lahore Museum. Young Kipling attended the United Services College, North Devon, England. At seventeen he went back to India and joined the staff of the Lahore Civil and Military Gazette. Four years later he published a book of fresh and skillful light verse, Departmental Ditties. In 1887 his first fiction, Plain Tales from the Hills, appeared. He produced Soldiers Three, The Phantom ’Rickshaw, Wee Willie Winkie, and other stories in the next two years. Between 1887 and 1889 he traveled through India, China, Japan, and the United States. In England his newborn fame had preceded him. He married Caroline Starr Balestier in 1892, honeymooned in Japan, and lived for the next four years in Brattleboro, Vermont. Later he settled in England. His first long fiction, The Light That Failed, published in 1891 and dramatized in 1905, was not regarded as his most impressive work. Barrack Room Ballads, many of which had first appeared in the National Observer, came out in 1892. Solidly turned and full of energy, they were largely written in the slang of British soldiers in India. They brought Kipling a whole new audience. In them two of his cardinal interests first strongly emerged: his intelligent concern Notes from the artist: “. . . under a quotation from The Conundrum of the Workshops—which might serve as Kipling’s own criticism of this portrait—the author is pictured as a raja, in a technique suggesting an Indian painting. Father Wolf, Shere Khan, and Mowgli may also be seen surrounding him.”

124 Rudyard Kipling with machinery and how it affects human beings, and his role as the revivalist preacher of British imperialism. The stories in Many Inventions were followed by The Jungle Book (see below) in 1894. Almost immediately came The Second Jungle Book. During the nineties and the early part of the century, he published Captains Courageous, Stalky and Co., Kim, Just So Stories, The Five Nations, Puck of Pook’s Hill, and other works. His most famous poem, Recessional, appeared in The Times of London on Queen Victoria’s second jubilee in 1897. He made several trips to South Africa and visited New York for the last time in 1899. Kipling was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature in 1907. He died in London on January 18, 1936. The story of the child who grows up in a wild state is old in legendand perhaps in fact. Romulus and Remus, the mythical founders of Rome, were said to have been suckled by a she-wolf. The discovery of the Wild Boy of Aveyron once caused a sensation in France. Even as late as March, 1959, the Times of India reported that a six-year-old boy named Parasram had been found at a water hole and brought back to his parents. He was said to have lived with wolves for four and a half years. Scientists discredited this, though the boy did eat raw meat without picking it up and drank at streams in a manner typical of wolves. But we need no such possibly factual parallels to be enchanted by Mowgli’s Brothers. The story follows a traditional form. That form was the animal fable. In the hands of such writers as Aesop, Chaucer, La Fontaine, and Lessing it had become a moral vehicle. In Kipling the moral touch is not lacking, but essentially his stories go back to such primitive animal tales as those of the Tewa Indians, Hottentots, Finns, Australasians, and to those of India itself. They share the two chief characteristics of the animal fable: in act and speech the animals take on human qualities, but they retain their own animal traits. We see this clearly in the first sharp dramatic moment of Mowgli’s Brothers, in the passage that begins: “And it is I, Raksha [the Demon] who answer. . . .” We are clinched. We have no choice but to go on with the story. We have seen Mother Wolf as the conven- tional suckler of cubs. Now suddenly, her eyes “like two green moons,” she changes into a fury. First, there is the rasp of the name

125Rudyard Kipling itself, Raksha, its given meaning, and the magnificent hard rage of her speech. But it is the sense of the speech that catches us. On the surface, this is anger and contempt for Shere Khan the tiger, “hunter of little naked cubs.” In that phrase its true meaning lies. Raksha becomes for us not only the human mother whom Mowgli has lost but all immemorial animal mothers raging in defense of their young. And what else do we feel? That Mowgli is not her cub, that he is the young of enemies. So we can measure the greatness of her generosity. We are a little amused at Father Wolf ’s astonishment. He sees her again as the dangerous young she-wolf that he had fought five other males to get. And finally, we know that the situation is established. Mowgli has been adopted into his wild family.

126 Mowgli’s Brothers Now Chil the Kite brings home the night That Mang the Bat sets free— The herds are shut in byre and hut For loosed till dawn are we. This is the hour of pride and power, Talon and tush and claw. Oh, hear the call!—Good hunting all That keep the Jungle Law! Night-Song in the Jungle t was seven o’clock of a very warm evening in the Seeonee Hills when Father Wolf woke up from his day’s rest, scratched himself, yawned, and spread out his paws one after the other to get rid of the sleepy feeling in their tips. Mother Wolf lay with her big grey nose dropped across her four tumbling, squealing cubs, and the moon shone into the mouth of the cave where they all lived. “Augrh!” said Father Wolf, “it is time to hunt again.” And he was going to spring downhill when a little shadow with a bushy tail crossed the threshold and whined: “good luck go with you, O Chief of the Wolves; and good luck and strong white teeth go with the noble children, that they may never forget the hungry in this world.” It was the jackal—Tabaqui the Dish-licker—and the wolves of India despise Tabaqui because he runs about making mischief, and telling tales, and eating rags and pieces of leather from the village rubbish- heaps. But they are afraid of him too, because Tabaqui, more than any one else in the jungle, is apt to go mad, and then he forgets that he was ever afraid of any one, and runs through the forest biting everything in

127M OWG LI’S B ROTH E R S his way. Even the tiger runs and hides when little Tabaqui goes mad, for madness is the most disgraceful thing that can overtake a wild creature. We call it hydrophobia, but they call it dewanee—the madness—and run. “Enter, then, and look,” said Father Wolf, stiffly, “but there is no food here.” “For a wolf, no,” said Tabaqui, “but for so mean a person as myself a dry bone is a good feast. Who are we, the Gidur-log [the Jackal-People], to pick and choose?” He scuttled to the back of the cave, where he found the bone of a buck with some meat on it, and sat cracking the end merrily. “All thanks for this good meal,” he said, licking his lips. “How beautiful are the noble children! How large are their eyes! And so young too! Indeed, indeed, I might have remembered that the children of kings are men from the beginning.” Now, Tabaqui knew as well as any one else that there is nothing so unlucky as to compliment children to their faces; and it pleased him to see Mother and Father Wolf look uncomfortable. Tabaqui sat still, rejoicing in the mischief that he had made, and then he said spitefully: “Shere Khan, the Big One, has shifted his hunting-grounds. He will hunt among these hills for the next moon, so he has told me.” Shere Khan was the tiger who lived near the Wainganga River, twenty miles away. “He has no right!” Father Wolf began angrily. “By the Law of the Jungle he has no right to change his quarters without due warning. He will frighten every head of game within ten miles, and I—I have to kill for two, these days.” “His mother did not call him Lungri [the Lame One] for nothing,” said Mother Wolf, quietly. “He has been lame in one foot from his birth. That is why he has only killed cattle. Now the villagers of the Wainganga are angry with him, and he has come here to make our villagers angry. They will scour the jungle for him when he is far away, and we and our children must run when the grass is set alight. Indeed, we are very grateful to Shere Khan!” “Shall I tell him of your gratitude?” said Tabaqui. “Out!” snapped Father Wolf. “Out and hunt with thy master. Thou hast done harm enough for one night.” “I go,” said Tabaqui, quietly. “Ye can hear Shere Khan below in the thickets. I might have saved myself the message.” Father Wolf listened, and below in the valley that ran down to a little river, he heard the dry, angry, snarly, sing-song whine of a tiger who has

128 Rudyard Kipling caught nothing and does not care if all the jungle knows it. “The fool!” said Father Wolf. “To begin a night’s work with that noise! Does he think that our buck are like his fat Wainganga bullocks?” “Hsh. It is neither bullock nor buck he hunts tonight,” said Mother Wolf. “It is Man.” The whine had changed to a sort of humming purr that seemed to come from every quarter of the compass. It was the noise that bewilders wood-cutters and gipsies sleeping in the open, and makes them run sometimes into the very mouth of the tiger. “Man!” said Father Wolf, showing all his white teeth. “Faugh! Are there not enough beetles and frogs in the tanks that he must eat Man, and on our ground too!” The Law of the Jungle, which never orders anything without a reason, forbids every beast to eat Man except when he is killing to show his children how to kill, and then he must hunt outside the hunting-grounds of his pack or tribe. The real reason for this is that man-killing means, sooner or later, the arrival of white men on elephants, with guns, and hundreds of brown men with gongs and rockets and torches. Then everybody in the jungle suffers. The reason the beasts give among themselves is that Man is the weakest and most defenceless of all living things, and it is unsportsmanlike to touch him. They say too—and it is true—that man-eaters become mangy, and lose their teeth. The purr grew louder, and ended in the full-throated “Aaarh!” of the tiger’s charge. Then there was a howl—an untigerish howl—from Shere Khan. “He has missed,” said Mother Wolf. “What is it?” Father Wolf ran out a few paces and heard Shere Khan muttering and mumbling savagely, as he tumbled about in the scrub. “The fool has had no more sense than to jump at a wood-cutters’ campfire, and has burned his feet,” said Father Wolf, with a grunt. “Tabaqui is with him.” “Something is coming uphill,” said Mother Wolf, twitching one ear. “Get ready.” The bushes rustled a little in the thicket, and Father Wolf dropped with his haunches under him, ready for his leap. Then, if you had been watching, you would have seen the most wonderful thing in the world— the wolf checked in mid-spring. He made his bound before he saw what it was he was jumping at, and then he tried to stop himself. The result was that he shot up straight into the air for four or five feet, landing almost where he left ground.

129M OWG LI’S B ROTH E R S “Man!” he snapped. “A man’s cub. Look!” Directly in front of him, holding on by a low branch, stood a naked brown baby who could just walk—as soft and as dimpled a little atom as ever came to a wolf’s cave at night. He looked up into Father Wolf’s face, and laughed. “Is that a man’s cub?” said Mother Wolf. “I have never seen one. Bring it here.” A wolf accustomed to moving his own cubs can, if necessary, mouth an egg without breaking it, and though Father Wolf’s jaws closed right on the child’s back, not a tooth even scratched the skin, as he laid it down among the cubs. “How little! How naked, and—how bold!” said Mother Wolf, softly. The baby was pushing his way between the cubs to get close to the warm hide. “Ahai! He is taking his meal with the others. And so this is a man’s cub. Now, was there ever a wolf that could boast of a man’s cub among her children?” “I have heard now and again of such a thing, but never in our pack or in my time,” said Father Wolf. “He is altogether without hair, and I could kill him with a touch of my foot. But see, he looks up and is not afraid.” The moonlight was blocked out of the mouth of the cave, for Shere Khan’s great square head and shoulders were thrust into the entrance. Tabaqui, behind him, was squeaking: “My lord, my lord, it went in here!” “Shere Khan does us great honour,” said Father Wolf, but his eyes were very angry. “What does Shere Khan need?” “My quarry. A man’s cub went this way,” said Shere Khan. “Its parents have run off. Give it to me.” Shere Khan had jumped at a wood-cutters’ camp-fire, as Father Wolf had said, and was furious from the pain of his burned feet. But Father Wolf knew that the mouth of the cave was too narrow for a tiger to come in by. Even where he was, Shere Khan’s shoulders and fore paws were cramped for want of room, as a man’s would be if he tried to fight in a barrel. “The wolves are a free people,” said Father Wolf. “They take orders from the head of the pack, and not from any striped cattle-killer. The man’s cub is ours—to kill if we choose.” “Ye choose and ye do not choose! What talk is this of choosing? By the bull that I killed, am I to stand nosing into your dog’s den for my fair dues? It is I, Shere Khan, who speak!”

130 Rudyard Kipling The tiger’s roar filled the cave with thunder. Mother Wolf shook herself clear of the cubs and sprang forward, her eyes, like two green moons in the darkness, facing the blazing eyes of Shere Khan. “And it is I, Raksha [the Demon], who answer. The man’s cub is mine, Lungri—mine to me! He shall not be killed. He shall live to run with the pack and to hunt with the pack; and in the end, look you, hunter of little naked cubs—frog-eater—fish-killer—he shall hunt thee! Now get hence, or by the sambur that I killed (I eat no starved cattle), back thou goest to thy mother, burned beast of the jungle, lamer than ever thou camest into the world! Go!” Father Wolf looked on amazed. He had almost forgotten the days when he won Mother Wolf in fair fight from five other wolves, when she ran in the pack and was not called the Demon for compliment’s sake. Shere Khan might have faced Father Wolf, but he could not stand up against Mother Wolf, for he knew that where he was she had all the advantage of the ground, and would fight to the death. So he backed out of the cave-mouth growling, and when he was clear he shouted: “Each dog barks in his own yard! We will see what the pack will say to this fostering of man-cubs. The cub is mine, and to my teeth he will come in the end, O bushtailed thieves!” Mother Wolf threw herself down panting among the cubs, and Father Wolf said to her gravely: “Shere Khan speaks this much truth. The cub must be shown to the pack. Wilt thou still keep him, Mother?” “Keep him!” she gasped. “He came naked, by night, alone and very hungry; yet he was not afraid! Look, he has pushed one of my babes to one side already. And that lame butcher would have killed him and would have run off to the Wainganga while the villagers here hunted through all our lairs in revenge! Keep him? Assuredly I will keep him. Lie still, little frog. O thou Mowgli—for Mowgli the Frog I will call thee—the time will come when thou wilt hunt Shere Khan as he has hunted thee.” “But what will our pack say?” said Father Wolf. The Law of the Jungle lays down very clearly that any wolf may, when he marries, withdraw from the pack he belongs to; but as soon as his cubs are old enough to stand on their feet he must bring them to the pack council, which is generally held once a month at full moon, in order that the other wolves may identify them. After that inspection the cubs are free to run where they please, and until they have killed their first buck no ex-

131M OWG LI’S B ROTH E R S cuse is accepted if a grown wolf of the pack kills one of them. The punishment is death where the murderer can be found; and if you think for a minute you will see that this must be so. Father Wolf waited till his cubs could run a little, and then on the night of the pack meeting took them and Mowgli and Mother Wolf to the Council Rock—a hill-top covered with stones and boulders where a hundred wolves could hide. Akela, the great grey Lone Wolf, who led all the pack by strength and cunning, lay out at full length on his rock, and below him sat forty or more wolves of every size and colour, from badger-coloured veterans who could handle a buck alone, to young black three-year-olds who thought they could. The Lone Wolf had led them for a year now. He had fallen twice into a wolf-trap in his youth, and once he had been beaten and left for dead; so he knew the manners and customs of men. There was very little talking at the rock. The cubs tumbled over each other in the centre of the circle where their mothers and fathers sat, and now and again a senior wolf would go quietly up to a cub, look at him carefully, and return to his place on noiseless feet. Sometimes a mother would push her cub far out into the moonlight, to be sure that he had not been overlooked. Akela from his rock would cry: “Ye know the Law—ye know the Law. Look well, O wolves!” And the anxious mothers would take up the call: “Look—look well, O wolves!” At last—and Mother Wolf’s neck-bristles lifted as the time came—Father Wolf pushed “Mowgli the Frog,” as they called him, into the centre, where he sat laughing and playing with some pebbles that glistened in the moonlight. Akela never raised his head from his paws, but went on with the monotonous cry: “Look well!” A muffled roar came up from behind the rocks—the voice of Shere Khan crying: “The cub is mine. Give him to me. What have the Free People to do with a man’s cub?” Akela never even twitched his ears. All he said was: “Look well, O wolves! What have the Free People to do with the orders of any save the Free People? Look well!” There was a chorus of deep growls, and a young wolf in his fourth year flung back Shere Khan’s question to Akela: “What have the Free People to do with a man’s cub?” Now the Law of the Jungle lays down that if there is any dispute as to the right of a cub to be accepted by the pack, he must be spoken for by at least two members of the pack who are not his father and mother. “Who speaks for this cub?” said Akela. “Among the Free People who

132 Rudyard Kipling speaks?” There was no answer, and Mother Wolf got ready for what she knew would be her last fight, if things came to fighting. Then the only other creature who is allowed at the pack council— Baloo, the sleepy brown bear who teaches the wolf cubs the Law of the Jungle: old Baloo, who can come and go where he pleases because he eats only nuts and roots and honey—rose up on his hind quarters and grunted. “The man’s cub—the man’s cub?” he said. “I speak for the man’s cub. There is no harm in a man’s cub. I have no gift of words, but I speak the truth. Let him run with the pack, and be entered with the others. I myself will teach him.” “We need yet another,” said Akela. “Baloo has spoken, and he is our teacher for the young cubs. Who speaks besides Baloo?” A black shadow dropped down into the circle. It was Bagheera the Black Panther, inky black all over, but with the panther markings showing up in certain lights like the pattern of watered silk. Everybody knew Bagheera, and nobody cared to cross his path, for he was as cunning as Tabaqui, as bold as the wild buffalo, and as reckless as the wounded elephant. But he had a voice as soft as wild honey dripping from a tree, and a skin softer than down. “O Akela, and ye the Free People,” he purred, “I have no right in your assembly, but the Law of the Jungle says that if there is a doubt which is not a killing matter in regard to a new cub, the life of that cub may be bought at a price. And the Law does not say who may or may not pay that price. Am I right?” “Good! Good!” said the young wolves, who are always hungry. “Listen to Bagheera. The cub can be bought for a price. It is the Law.” “Knowing that I have no right to speak here, I ask your leave.” “Speak then,” cried twenty voices. “To kill a naked cub is shame. Besides, he may make better sport for you when he is grown. Baloo has spoken in his behalf. Now to Baloo’s word I will add one bull, and a fat one, newly killed, not half a mile from here, if ye will accept the man’s cub according to the Law. Is it difficult?” There was a clamour of scores of voices, saying: “What matter? He will die in the winter rains. He will scorch in the sun. What harm can a naked frog do us? Let him run with the pack. Where is the bull, Bagheera? Let him be accepted.” And then came Akela’s deep bay, crying: “Look well—look well, O wolves!” Mowgli was still deeply interested in the pebbles, and he did not notice

133M OWG LI’S B ROTH E R S when the wolves came and looked at him one by one. At last they all went down the hill for the dead bull, and only Akela, Bagheera, Baloo, and Mowgli’s own wolves were left. Shere Khan roared still in the night, for he was very angry that Mowgli had not been handed over to him. “Aye, roar well,” said Bagheera, under his whiskers, “for the time comes when this naked thing will make thee roar to another tune, or I know nothing of Man.” “It was well done,” said Akela. “Men and their cubs are very wise. He may be a help in time.” “Truly, a help in time of need, for none can hope to lead the pack for ever,” said Bagheera. Akela said nothing. He was thinking of the time that comes to every leader of every pack when his strength goes from him and he gets feebler and feebler, till at last he is killed by the wolves and a new leader comes up—to be killed in his turn. “Take him away,” he said to Father Wolf, “and train him as befits one of the Free People.” And that is how Mowgli was entered into the Seeonee Wolf Pack for the price of a bull and on Baloo’s good word. Now you must be content to skip ten or eleven whole years, and only guess at all the wonderful life that Mowgli led among the wolves, because if it were written out it would fill ever so many books. He grew up with the cubs, though they, of course, were grown wolves almost before he was a child, and Father Wolf taught him his business, and the meaning of things in the jungle, till every rustle in the grass, every breath of the warm night air, every note of the owls above his head, every scratch of a bat’s claws as it roosted for a while in a tree, and every splash of every little fish jumping in a pool meant just as much to him as the work of his office means to a business man. When he was not learning he sat out in the sun and slept, and ate and went to sleep again; when he felt dirty or hot he swam in the forest pools; and when he wanted honey (Baloo told him that honey and nuts were just as pleasant to eat as raw meat) he climbed up for it, and that Bagheera showed him how to do. Bagheera would lie out on a branch and call: “Come along, Little Brother,” and at first Mowgli would cling like the sloth, but afterwards he would fling himself through the branches almost as boldly as the grey ape. He took his place at the Council Rock, too, when the pack met, and there he discovered that if he stared hard at any wolf, the wolf would be forced to drop his eyes, and so he used to stare for fun. At other times he would pick the

134 Rudyard Kipling long thorns out of the pads of his friends, for wolves suffer terribly from thorns and burs in their coats. He would go down the hillside into the cultivated lands by night, and look very curiously at the villagers in their huts, but he had a mistrust of men because Bagheera showed him a square box with a drop-gate so cunningly hidden in the jungle that he nearly walked into it, and told him that it was a trap. He loved better than anything else to go with Bagheera into the dark warm heart of the forest, to sleep all through the drowsy day, and at night see how Bagheera did his killing. Bagheera killed right and left as he felt hungry, and so did Mowgli—with one exception. As soon as he was old enough to understand things, Bagheera told him that he must never touch cattle because he had been bought into the pack at the price of a bull’s life. “All the jungle is thine,” said Bagheera, “and thou canst kill everything that thou art strong enough to kill; but for the sake of the bull that bought thee thou must never kill or eat any cattle young or old. That is the Law of the Jungle.” Mowgli obeyed faithfully. And he grew and grew strong as a boy must grow who does not know that he is learning any lessons, and who has nothing in the world to think of except things to eat. Mother Wolf told him once or twice that Shere Khan was not a creature to be trusted, and that some day he must kill Shere Khan. But though a young wolf would have remembered that advice every hour, Mowgli forgot it because he was only a boy—though he would have called himself a wolf if he had been able to speak in any human tongue. Shere Khan was always crossing his path in the jungle, for as Akela grew older and feebler the lame tiger had come to be great friends with the younger wolves of the pack, who followed him for scraps, a thing Akela would never have allowed if he had dared to push his authority to the proper bounds. Then Shere Khan would flatter them and wonder that such fine young hunters were content to be led by a dying wolf and a man’s cub. “They tell me,” Shere Khan would say, “that at council ye dare not look him between the eyes.” And the young wolves would growl and bristle. Bagheera, who had eyes and ears everywhere, knew something of this, and once or twice he told Mowgli in so many words that Shere Khan would kill him some day. And Mowgli would laugh and answer: “I have the pack and I have thee; and Baloo, though he is so lazy, might strike a blow or two for my sake. Why should I be afraid?” It was one very warm day that a new notion came to Bagheera—born of something that he had heard. Perhaps Sahi the Porcupine had told him; but he said to Mowgli when they were deep in the jungle, as the boy lay

135M OWG LI’S B ROTH E R S with his head on Bagheera’s beautiful black skin: “Little Brother, how often have I told thee that Shere Khan is thy enemy?” “As many times as there are nuts on that palm,” said Mowgli, who, naturally, could not count. “What of it? I am sleepy, Bagheera, and Shere Khan is all long tail and loud talk—like Mor the Peacock.” “But this is no time for sleeping. Baloo knows it; I know it; the pack knows it; and even the foolish, foolish deer know. Tabaqui has told thee, too.” “Ho! Ho!” said Mowgli. “Tabaqui came to me not long ago with some rude talk that I was a naked man’s cub and not fit to dig pig-nuts; but I caught Tabaqui by the tail and swung him twice against a palm-tree to teach him better manners.” “That was foolishness, for though Tabaqui is a mischief-maker, he would have told thee of something that concerned thee closely. Open those eyes, Little Brother. Shere Khan dare not kill thee in the jungle; but remember, Akela is very old, and soon the day comes when he cannot kill his buck, and then he will be leader no more. Many of the wolves that looked thee over when thou wast brought to the council first are old too, and the young wolves believe, as Shere Khan has taught them, that a man-cub has no place with the pack. In a little time thou wilt be a man.” “And what is a man that he should not run with his brothers?” said Mowgli. “I was born in the jungle. I have obeyed the Law of the Jungle, and there is no wolf of ours from whose paws I have not pulled a thorn. Surely they are my brothers!” Bagheera stretched himself at full length and half shut his eyes. “Little Brother,” said he, “feel under my jaw.” Mowgli put up his strong brown hand, and just under Bagheera’s silky chin, where the giant rolling muscles were all hid by the glossy hair, he came upon a little bald spot. “There is no one in the jungle that knows that I, Bagheera, carry that mark—the mark of the collar. And yet, Little Brother, I was born among men, and it was among men that my mother died—in the cages of the king’s palace at Oodeypore. It was because of this that I paid the price for thee at the council when thou wast a little naked cub. Yes, I too was born among men. I had never seen the jungle. They fed me behind bars from an iron pan till one night I felt that I was Bagheera—the Panther— and no man’s plaything, and I broke the silly lock with one blow of my paw and came away. And because I had learned the ways of men, I became more terrible in the jungle than Shere Khan. Is it not so?” “Yes,” said Mowgli, “all the jungle fears Bagheera—all except Mowgli.”

136 Rudyard Kipling “Oh, thou art a man’s cub,” said the black panther, very tenderly, “and even as I returned to my jungle, so thou must go back to men at last—to the men who are thy brothers—if thou art not killed in the council.” “But why—but why should any wish to kill me?” said Mowgli. “Look at me,” said Bagheera, and Mowgli looked at him steadily between the eyes. The big panther turned his head away in half a minute. “That is why,” he said, shifting his paw on the leaves. “Not even I can look thee between the eyes, and I was born among men, and I love thee, Little Brother. The others they hate thee because their eyes cannot meet thine; because thou art wise; because thou hast pulled out thorns from their feet—because thou art a man.” “I did not know these things,” said Mowgli, sullenly, and he frowned under his heavy black eyebrows. “What is the Law of the Jungle? Strike first and then give tongue. By thy very carelessness they know that thou art a man. But be wise. It is in my heart that when Akela misses his next kill—and at each hunt it costs him more to pin the buck—the pack will turn against him and against thee. They will hold a jungle council at the rock, and then—and then— I have it!” said Bagheera, leaping up. “Go thou down quickly to the men’s huts in the valley, and take some of the Red Flower which they grow there, so that when the time comes thou mayest have even a stronger friend than I or Baloo or those of the pack that love thee. Get the Red Flower.” By Red Flower Bagheera meant fire, only no creature in the jungle will call fire by its proper name. Every beast lives in deadly fear of it, and invents a hundred ways of describing it. “The Red Flower?” said Mowgli. “That grows outside their huts in the twilight. I will get some.” “There speaks the man’s cub,” said Bagheera, proudly. “Remember that it grows in little pots. Get one swiftly, and keep it by thee for time of need.” “Good!” said Mowgli. “I go. But art thou sure, O my Bagheera”—he slipped his arm round the splendid neck, and looked deep into the big eyes—”art thou sure that all this is Shere Khan’s doing?” “By the broken lock that freed me, I am sure, Little Brother.” “Then, by the bull that bought me, I will pay Shere Khan full tale for this, and it may be a little over,” said Mowgli, and he bounded away. “That is a man. That is all a man,” said Bagheera to himself, lying down again. “Oh, Shere Khan, never was a blacker hunting than that frog-hunt of thine ten years ago!”

137M OWG LI’S B ROTH E R S Mowgli was far and far through the forest, running hard, and his heart was hot in him. He came to the cave as the evening mist rose, and drew breath, and looked down the valley. The cubs were out, but Mother Wolf, at the back of the cave, knew by his breathing that something was troubling her frog. “What is it, Son?” she said. “Some bat’s chatter of Shere Khan,” he called back. “I hunt among the ploughed fields to-night.” And he plunged downward through the bushes, to the stream at the bottom of the valley. There he checked, for he heard the yell of the pack hunting, heard the bellow of a hunted sambur, and the snort as the buck turned at bay. Then there were wicked, bitter howls from the young wolves: “Akela! Akela! Let the Lone Wolf show his strength. Room for the leader of the pack! Spring, Akela!” The Lone Wolf must have sprung and missed his hold, for Mowgli heard the snap of his teeth and then a yelp as the sambur knocked him over with his fore-foot. He did not wait for anything more, but dashed on; and the yells grew fainter behind him as he ran into the crop-lands where the villagers lived. “Bagheera spoke truth,” he panted, as he nestled down in some cattle- fodder by the window of a hut. “To-morrow is one day both for Akela and for me.” Then he pressed his face close to the window and watched the fire on the hearth. He saw the husbandman’s wife get up and feed it in the night with black lumps; and when the morning came and the mists were all white and cold, he saw the man’s child pick up a wicker pot plastered inside with earth, fill it with lumps of red-hot charcoal, put it under his blanket, and go out to tend the cows in the byre. “Is that all?” said Mowgli. “If a cub can do it, there is nothing to fear.” So he strode round the corner and met the boy, took the pot from his hand, and disappeared into the mist while the boy howled with fear. “They are very like me,” said Mowgli, blowing into the pot, as he had seen the woman do. “This thing will die if I do not give it things to eat.” And he dropped twigs and dried bark on the red stuff. Half-way up the hill he met Bagheera with the morning dew shining like moonstones on his coat. “Akela has missed,” said the panther. “They would have killed him last night, but they needed thee also. They were looking for thee on the hill.” “I was among the ploughed lands. I am ready. See!” Mowgli held up the fire-pot. “Good! Now, I have seen men thrust a dry branch into that stuff, and

138 Rudyard Kipling presently the Red Flower blossomed at the end of it. Art thou not afraid?” “No. Why should I fear? I remember now—if it is not a dream—how, before I was a wolf, I lay beside the Red Flower, and it was warm and pleasant.” All that day Mowgli sat in the cave tending his fire-pot and dipping dry branches into it to see how they looked. He bound a branch that satisfied him, and in the evening when Tabaqui came to the cave and told him rudely enough that he was wanted at the Council Rock, he laughed till Tabaqui ran away. Then Mowgli went to the council, still laughing. Akela the Lone Wolf lay by the side of his rock as a sign that the leadership of the pack was open, and Shere Khan with his following of scrap-fed wolves walked to and fro openly being flattered. Bagheera lay close to Mowgli, and the fire-pot was between Mowgli’s knees. When they were all gathered together, Shere Khan began to speak—a thing he would never have dared to do when Akela was in his prime. “He has no right,” whispered Bagheera. “Say so. He is a dog’s son. He will be frightened.” Mowgli sprang to his feet. “Free People,” he cried, “does Shere Khan lead the pack? What has a tiger to do with our leadership?” “Seeing that the leadership is yet open, and being asked to speak—” Shere Khan began. “By whom?” said Mowgli. “Are we all jackals, to fawn on this cattle- butcher? The leadership of the pack is with the pack alone.” There were yells of “Silence, thou man’s cub!” “Let him speak. He has kept our Law.” And at last the seniors of the pack thundered: “Let the Dead Wolf speak.” When a leader of the pack has missed his kill, he is called the Dead Wolf as long as he lives, which is not long. Akela raised his old head wearily: “Free People, and ye too, jackals of Shere Khan, for twelve seasons I have led ye to and from the kill, and in all that time not one has been trapped or maimed. Now I have missed my kill. Ye know how that plot was made. Ye know how ye brought me up to an untried buck to make my weakness known. It was cleverly done. Your right is to kill me here on the Council Rock, now. Therefore, I ask, who comes to make an end of the Lone Wolf? For it is my right, by the Law of the Jungle, that ye come one by one.” There was a long hush, for no single wolf cared to fight Akela to the death. Then Shere Khan roared: “Bah! What have we to do with this toothless fool? He is doomed to die! It is the man-cub who has lived too

139M OWG LI’S B ROTH E R S long. Free People, he was my meat from the first. Give him to me. I am weary of this man-wolf folly. He has troubled the jungle for ten seasons. Give me the man-cub, or I will hunt here always, and not give you one bone. He is a man, a man’s child, and from the marrow of my bones I hate him!” Then more than half the pack yelled: “A man! A man! What has a man to do with us? Let him go to his own place.” “And turn all the people of the villages against us?” clamoured Shere Khan. “No! Give him to me. He is a man, and none of us can look him between the eyes.” Akela lifted his head again, and said: “He has eaten our food. He has slept with us. He has driven game for us. He has broken no word of the Law of the Jungle.” “Also, I paid for him with a bull when he was accepted. The worth of a bull is little, but Bagheera’s honour is something that he will perhaps fight for,” said Bagheera, in his gentlest voice. “A bull paid ten years ago!” the pack snarled. “What do we care for bones ten years old?” “Or for a pledge?” said Bagheera, his white teeth bared under his lip. “Well are ye called the Free People!” “No man’s cub can run with the people of the jungle,” howled Shere Khan. “Give him to me!” “He is our brother in all but blood,” Akela went on, “and ye would kill him here! In truth, I have lived too long. Some of ye are eaters of cattle, and of others I have heard that, under Shere Khan’s teaching, ye go by dark night and snatch children from the villager’s door-step. Therefore I know ye to be cowards, and it is to cowards I speak. It is certain that I must die, and my life is of no worth, or I would offer that in the man-cub’s place. But for the sake of the honour of the pack—a little matter that by being without a leader ye have forgotten—I promise that if ye let the man-cub go to his own place, I will not, when my time comes to die, bare one tooth against ye. I will die without fighting. That will at least save the pack three lives. More I cannot do; but if ye will, I can save ye the shame that comes of killing a brother against whom there is no fault—a brother spoken for and bought into the pack according to the Law of the Jungle.” “He is a man—a man—a man!” snarled the pack. And most of the wolves began to gather round Shere Khan, whose tail was beginning to switch. “Now the business is in thy hands,” said Bagheera to Mowgli. “We can do no more except fight.”

140 Rudyard Kipling Mowgli stood upright, the fire-pot in his hands. Then he stretched out his arms, and yawned in the face of the council. But he was furious with rage and sorrow, for, wolflike, the wolves had never told him how they hated him. “Listen you!” he cried. “There is no need for this dog’s jabber. Ye have told me so often to-night that I am a man (and indeed I would have been a wolf with you to my life’s end) that I feel your words are true. So I do not call ye my brothers any more, but sag [dogs], as a man should. What ye will do, and what ye will not do, is not yours to say. That matter is with me. And that we may see the matter more plainly, I, the man, have brought here a little of the Red Flower, which ye, dogs, fear.” He flung the fire-pot on the ground, and some of the red coals lit a tuft of dried moss that flared up, as all the council drew back in terror before the leaping flames. Mowgli thrust his dead branch into the fire till the twigs lit and crackled, and whirled it above his head among the cowering wolves. “Thou art the master,” said Bagheera, in an undertone. “Save Akela from the death. He was ever thy friend.” Akela, the grim old wolf who had never asked for mercy in his life, gave one piteous look at Mowgli as the boy stood all naked, his long black hair tossing over his shoulders in the light of the blazing branch that made the shadows jump and quiver. “Good!” said Mowgli, staring round slowly. “I see that ye are dogs. I go from you to my own people—if they be my own people. The jungle is shut to me, and I must forget your talk and your companionship; but I will be more merciful than ye are. Because I was all but your brother in blood, I promise that when I am a man among men I will not betray ye to men as ye have betrayed me.” He kicked the fire with his foot, and the sparks flew up. “There shall be no war between any of us in the pack. But here is a debt to pay before I go.” He strode forward to where Shere Khan sat blinking stupidly at the flames, and caught him by the tuft on his chin. Bagheera followed in case of accidents. “Up, dog!” Mowgli cried. “Up, when a man speaks, or I will set that coat ablaze!” Shere Khan’s ears lay flat back on his head, and he shut his eyes, for the blazing branch was very near. “This cattle-killer said he would kill me in the council because he had not killed me when I was a cub. Thus and thus, then, do we beat dogs when we are men. Stir a whisker, Lungri, and I ram the Red Flower down thy gullet!” He beat Shere Khan over the head with the branch, and the tiger whimpered and whined in an agony of fear. “Pah! Singed jungle-cat—go now! But remember when next I come to

141M OWG LI’S B ROTH E R S the Council Rock, as a man should come, it will be with Shere Khan’s hide on my head. For the rest, Akela goes free to live as he pleases. Ye will not kill him, because that is not my will. Nor do I think that ye will sit here any longer, lolling out your tongues as though ye were somebodies, instead of dogs whom I drive out—thus! Go!” The fire was burning furiously at the end of the branch, and Mowgli struck right and left round the circle, and the wolves ran howling with the sparks burning their fur. At last there were only Akela, Bagheera, and perhaps ten wolves that had taken Mowgli’s part. Then something began to hurt Mowgli inside him, as he had never been hurt in his life before, and he caught his breath and sobbed, and the tears ran down his face. “What is it? What is it?” he said. “I do not wish to leave the jungle, and I do not know what this is. Am I dying, Bagheera?” “No, Little Brother. That is only tears such as men use,” said Bagheera. “Now I know thou art a man, and a man’s cub no longer. The jungle is shut indeed to thee henceforward. Let them fall, Mowgli. They are only tears.” So Mowgli sat and cried as though his heart would break; and he had never cried in all his life before. “Now,” he said, “I will go to men. But first I must say farewell to my mother.” And he went to the cave where she lived with Father Wolf, and he cried on her coat, while the four cubs howled miserably. “Ye will not forget me?” said Mowgli. “Never while we can follow a trail,” said the cubs. “Come to the foot of the hill when thou art a man, and we will talk to thee; and we will come into the crop-lands to play with thee by night.” “Come soon!” said Father Wolf. “Oh, wise little frog, come again soon, for we be old, thy mother and I.” “Come soon,” said Mother Wolf, “little naked son of mine, for, listen, child of man, I loved thee more than ever I loved my cubs.” “I will surely come,” said Mowgli, “and when I come it will be to lay out Shere Khan’s hide upon the Council Rock. Do not forget me! Tell them in the jungle never to forget me!” The dawn was beginning to break when Mowgli went down the hillside alone, to meet those mysterious things that are called men. “Mowgli’s Brothers” is from a collection of Kipling’s stories entitled THE JUNGLE BOOK.

142 Victor Hugo 1802–1885 Victor (Marie) Hugo was born in Besançon, France, February 26, 1802. His father later served as a Napoleonic general. Victor’s childhood was “inflamed by many journeys” to Corsica, Italy, and Spain. At seventeen he won the chief prize for poetry at Toulouse. A first book of poems, in 1822, was intended to please the eye of Louis XVIII, and did. Hugo was given a pension. That same year he married his childhood friend, Adèle Foucher. His brother Eugène, who was also in love with her, went out of his mind at the wedding. In 1823 Hugo published a “tale of horror,” Hans of Iceland. He was given the Legion of Honor. He began to move toward Romanticism. His preface to the drama Cromwell became the manifesto of that movement. In 1829 he produced The Orientals and most of another book of poems, The Last Day of a Condemned Man, and a large part of the novel Nôtre Dame de Paris, plus two dramas, Marion de Lorme and Hernani. On February 25, 1830, the uproar at the opening of Hernani—it went on for forty or more nights and became known as the “Battles of Hernani”— established that date as the birthday of the Romantic movement in France. Under the July Monarchy Hugo flourished as the most famous of French poets. The medieval color of Nôtre Dame de Paris made it Notes from the artist: “. . . at the age of twenty-seven, as shown here, Hugo was already an important force in French letters. The incidental characters are from Nôtre Dame de Paris: the priest Claude Frollo carrying the abandoned infant Quasimodo, and Esmeralda giving the hunchbacked hero a drink of water.”

144 Victor Hugo popular. In his play Lucrezia Borgia, a small part was taken by Juliette Drouet. She remained his faithful mistress for more than fifty years. Autumn Leaves, Interior Voices, and other poetry increased his reputation. In 1841, on the fourth attempt, he was elected to the French Academy. Three years later he was named a peer of France. He was a member of the Committee of Insurrection during the coup d’état of 1851. When Napoleon III came to power, Hugo, disguised as a peasant, escaped to Brussels. “When liberty returns, I will return,” he said. With his family he moved first to the island of Jersey, then to Guernsey, where Mlle Drouet took a cottage. There he wrote The Contemplations, the first part of Legend of the Centuries, and Les Misérables. Adèle Hugo died in Brussels in 1868. In 1870, after Napoleon III was captured by the Germans, Hugo went back to France. Present at the siege of Paris, he noted in his journal: “Yesterday I ate rat’s meat.” In the ensuing years he published fourteen books, among them The Story of a Crime and Four Winds of the Spirit. His eightieth birthday was a great public triumph. Mlle Drouet died in 1883. Two years later, on May 22, 1885, Hugo followed her. His state funeral was described as an event “in which the corpse presented to the nation became god.” He is buried in the Panthéon. The Battle with the Cannon” is a chapter from Ninety-Three, Hugo’s tale of the French Revolution. Much of the novel seems to have been written in the glassed-in lookout tower of his house on Guernsey. It was published in 1874. From that date on, every reader has remembered the story of the wild gun, not only for the excitement of the incident itself, but for the grim shock of its ending. In Hugo we do not look for the close knowledge of sea life to be found in Dana or Conrad. We are caught by his sense of bold drama, and by the meaning that comes out of it. The twenty-four-pounder (its designation refers not to the weight of the gun but to the shot it throws) becomes a living monster, quick and murderous. Loose on the gun deck with a sea making up, it crushes out the life of every man in its way and threatens the ship herself. Into the arena comes the captain of the gun. It is his responsibility. His negligence, in failing to see that it was properly secured, has allowed it to break loose in the first place. He fights this deadly

bronze bull with the cunning of a torero. In the end, like the Erymanthian boar conquered by Hercules, it lies bound and overthrown. But at once we are faced with a new crisis. How is this conqueror to be judged? We, like his officers, must answer that question. In this fact lies the true depth of the story. He permitted the gun to go adrift and he has secured it again. By which act must he be judged? Suddenly we are aware that, like Scott’s The Two Drovers1 and Melville’s Billy Budd,2 Hugo’s narrative is no mere adventure. We are faced with a problem of justice. In each of these three stories, a man is executed. In each we must make a sorrowful, all but impossible choice. We are asked to choose between the justice of law, which has good sense and some necessity on its side, and what we feel to be the human justice of the case. Nor is this “human justice” altogether—or even largely, perhaps—a matter of feeling. We tend to think of it as broader, finer, and more flexible than the law. It is the balance we strike for the whole situation. Often the law takes little formal notice of what we may call the defendant’s total human worth. Our estimate of that, arbitrary though it may be, is the pivot of our judgment. We wish that Hugo had told us more about the character of his gun captain. We are shocked by the wholly irregular action of Captain Boisberthelot, who hands over a matter of ship’s discipline to the passenger general. Is this a dramatic liberty taken by the author? Or was such a thing actually possible in a revolutionary situation? In any case, we admit the weight of the general’s charges. It is true that the gun captain’s negligence has caused the death of shipmates and put the ship herself in danger. But we are shocked by the general’s decision. First he decorates the gunner and then orders that he be shot. If he had announced both decisions at the same time we might not have been shocked, but in that case the story would have lost much of its dramatic power. In fact, Hugo intends to shock us. He wishes to show us what happens when justice is administered too meticulously. 1See Vol. 2, pp. 182–205, in this set. 2See Vol. 3, pp. 31–98, in this set. Victor Hugo 145

146 The Battle with the Cannon from Ninety-three ne of the carronades of the battery, a twenty-four pounder, had got loose. This is perhaps the most formidable of ocean accidents. Nothing more terrible can happen to a vessel in open sea and under full sail. A gun that breaks its moorings becomes suddenly some indescribable supernatural beast. It is a machine which transforms itself into a monster. This mass turns upon its wheels, has the rapid movements of a billiard ball; rolls with the rolling, pitches with the pitching; goes, comes, pauses, seems to meditate; resumes its course, rushes along the ship from end to end like an arrow, circles about, springs aside, evades, rears, breaks, kills, exterminates. It is a battering-ram which assaults a wall at its own caprice. Moreover, the battering-ram is metal, the wall wood. It is the entrance of matter into liberty. One might say that this eternal slave avenges itself. It seems as if the power of evil hidden in what we call inanimate objects finds a vent and bursts suddenly out. It has an air of having lost patience, of seeking some fierce, obscure retribution; nothing more inexorable than this rage of the inanimate. The mad mass has the bound of a panther, the weight of the elephant, the agility of the mouse, the obstinacy of the ax, the unexpectedness of the surge, the rapidity of lightning, the deafness of the tomb. It weighs ten thousand pounds, and it rebounds like a child’s ball. Its flight is a wild whirl abruptly cut at right angles. What is to be done? How to end this? A tempest ceases, a cyclone passes, a wind falls, a broken mast is replaced, a leak is stopped, a fire dies out; but how to control this enormous brute of bronze? In what way can one attack it? You can make a mastiff hear reason, astound a bull, fascinate a boa, frighten a tiger, soften a lion; but there is no resource with that monster—

147TH E BATTLE WITH TH E CAN NON a cannon let loose. You cannot kill it—it is dead; at the same time it lives. It lives with a sinister life bestowed on it by Infinity. The planks beneath it give it play. It is moved by the ship, which is moved by the sea, which is moved by the wind. This destroyer is a plaything. The ship, the waves, the blasts, all aid it; hence its frightful vitality. How to assail this fury of complication? How to fetter this monstrous mechanism for wrecking a ship? How foresee its comings and goings, its returns, its stops, its shocks? Any one of these blows upon the sides may stave out the vessel. How divine its awful gyrations! One has to deal with a projectile which thinks, seems to possess ideas, and which changes its direction at each instant. How stop the course of something which must be avoided? The horrible cannon flings itself about, advances, recoils, strikes to the right, strikes to the left, flees, passes, disconcerts, ambushes, breaks down obstacles, crushes men like flies. The great danger of the situation is in the mobility of its base. How combat an inclined plane which has caprices? The ship, so to speak, has lightning imprisoned in its womb which seeks to escape; it is like thunder rolling above an earthquake. In an instant the whole crew were on foot. The fault was the chief gunner’s; he had neglected to fix home the screw nut of the mooring chain, and had so badly shackled the four wheels of the carronade that the play given to the sole and frame had separated the platform, and ended by breaking the breeching. The cordage had broken, so that the gun was no longer secure on the carriage. The stationary breeching which prevents recoil was not in use at that period. As a heavy wave struck the port, the carronade, weakly attached, recoiled, burst its chain, and began to rush wildly about. Conceive, in order to have an idea of this strange sliding, a drop of water running down a pane of glass. At the moment when the lashings gave way the gunners were in the battery, some in groups, others standing alone, occupied with such duties as sailors perform in expectation of the command to clear for action. The carronade, hurled forward by the pitching, dashed into this knot of men, and crushed four at the first blow; then flung back and shot out anew by the rolling, it cut in two a fifth poor fellow, glanced off to the larboard side, and struck a piece of the battery with such force as to unship it. Then rose the cry of distress which had been heard. The men rushed toward the ladder; the gun deck emptied in the twinkling of an eye. The enormous cannon was left alone. She was given up to herself. She was her own mistress, and mistress of the vessel. She could do what she willed with both. This whole crew, accustomed to laugh in

148 Victor Hugo battle, trembled now. To describe the universal terror would be impossible. Captain Boisberthelot and Lieutenant Vieuville, although both intrepid men, stopped at the head of the stairs, and remained mute, pale, hesitating, looking down on the deck. Some one pushed them aside with his elbow and descended. It was their passenger, the peasant, the man of whom they had been speaking a moment before. When he reached the foot of the ladder, he stood still. The cannon came and went along the deck. One might have fancied it the living chariot of the Apocalypse. The marine lantern, oscillating from the ceiling, added a dizzying whirl of lights and shadows to this vision. The shape of the cannon was undistinguishable from the rapidity of its course; now it looked black in the light, now it cast weird reflections through the gloom. It kept on its work of destruction. It had already shattered four other pieces, and dug two crevices in the side, fortunately above the water line, though they would leak in case a squall should come on. It dashed itself frantically against the framework; the solid tie beams resisted, their curved form giving them great strength, but they creaked ominously under the assaults of this terrible club, which seemed endowed with a sort of appalling ubiquity, striking on every side at once. The strokes of a bullet shaken in a bottle would not be madder or more rapid. The four wheels passed and repassed above the dead men, cut, carved, slashed them, till the five corpses were a score of stumps rolling about the deck; the heads seem to cry out; streams of blood twisted in and out of the planks with every pitch of the vessel. The ceiling, damaged in several places, began to gape. The whole ship was filled with the awful tumult. The captain promptly recovered his composure, and at his order the sailors threw down into the deck everything which could deaden and check the mad rush of the gun—mattresses, hammocks, spare sails, coils of rope, extra equipments, and the bales of false assignats of which the corvette carried a whole cargo; an infamous deception which the English considered a fair trick in war. But what could these rags avail? No one dared descend to arrange them in any useful fashion, and in a few instants they were mere heaps of lint. There was just sea enough to render an accident as complete as possible. A tempest would have been desirable—it might have thrown the gun upside down; and the four wheels once in the air, the monster could have been mastered. But the devastation increased. There were

149TH E BATTLE WITH TH E CAN NON gashes and even fractures in the masts, which, imbedded in the woodwork of the keel, pierce the decks of ships like great round pillars. The mizzenmast was cracked, and the mainmast itself was injured under the convulsive blows of the gun. The battery was being destroyed. Ten pieces out of the thirty were disabled; the breaches multiplied in the side, and the corvette began to take in water. The old passenger, who had descended to the gun deck, looked like a form of stone stationed at the foot of the stairs. He stood motionless, gazing sternly about upon the devastation. Indeed, it seemed impossible to take a single step forward. Each bound of the liberated carronade menaced the destruction of the vessel. A few minutes more and shipwreck would be inevitable. They must perish or put a summary end to the disaster. A decision must be made—but how? What a combatant—this cannon! They must check this mad monster. They must seize this flash of lightning. They must overthrow this thunderbolt. Boisberthelot said to Le Vieuville— “Do you believe in God, Chevalier?” Le Vieuville replied— “Yes. No. Sometimes.” “In a tempest?” “Yes; and in moments like this.” “Only God can aid us here,” said Boisberthelot. All were silent: the cannon kept up its horrible fracas. The waves beat against the ship; their blows from without responded to the strokes of the cannon. It was like two hammers alternating. Suddenly, into the midst of this sort of inaccessible circus, where the escaped cannon leaped and bounded, there sprang a man with an iron bar in his hand. It was the author of this catastrophe—the gunner whose culpable negligence had caused the accident; the captain of the gun. Having been the means of bringing about the misfortune, he desired to repair it. He had caught up a handspike in one fist, a tiller rope with a slipping-noose in the other, and jumped down into the gun deck. Then a strange combat began, a titanic strife—the struggle of the gun against the gunner; a battle between matter and intelligence; a duel between the inanimate and the human. The man was posted in an angle, the bar and rope in his two fists; backed against one of the riders, settled firmly on his legs as on two

150 Victor Hugo pillars of steel, livid, calm, tragic, rooted as it were in the planks, he waited. He waited for the cannon to pass near him. The gunner knew his piece, and it seemed to him that she must recognize her master. He had lived a long while with her. How many times he had thrust his hand between her jaws! It was his tame monster. He began to address it as he might have done his dog. “Come!” said he. Perhaps he loved it. He seemed to wish that it would turn toward him. But to come toward him would be to spring upon him. Then he would be lost. How to avoid its crush? There was the question. All stared in terrified silence. Not a breast respired freely, except perchance that of the old man who alone stood in the deck with the two combatants, a stern second. He might himself be crushed by the piece. He did not stir. Beneath them, the blind sea directed the battle. At the instant when, accepting this awful hand-to-hand contest, the gunner approached to challenge the cannon, some chance fluctuation of the waves kept it for a moment immovable, as if suddenly stupefied. “Come on!” the man said to it. It seemed to listen. Suddenly it darted upon him. The gunner avoided the shock. The struggle began—struggle unheard of. The fragile matching itself against the invulnerable. The thing of flesh attacking the brazen brute. On the one side blind force, on the other a soul. The whole passed in a half-light. It was like the indistinct vision of a miracle. A soul—strange thing; but you would have said that the cannon had one also—a soul filled with rage and hatred. This blindness appeared to have eyes. The monster had the air of watching the man. There was— one might have fancied so at least—cunning in this mass. It also chose its moment. It became some gigantic insect of metal, having, or seeming to have, the will of a demon. Sometimes this colossal grasshopper would strike the low ceiling of the gun deck, then fall back on its four wheels like a tiger upon its four claws, and dart anew on the man. He, supple, agile, adroit, would glide away like a snake from the reach of these lightning-like movements. He avoided the encounters; but the blows which he escaped fell upon the vessel and continued the havoc. An end of broken chain remained attached to the carronade. This chain had twisted itself, one could not tell how, about the screw of the

151TH E BATTLE WITH TH E CAN NON breech button. One extremity of the chain was fastened to the carriage. The other, hanging loose, whirled wildly about the gun and added to the danger of its blows. The screw held it like a clinched hand, and the chain multiplying the strokes of the battering-ram by its strokes of a thong, made a fearful whirlwind about the cannon—a whip of iron in a fist of brass. This chain complicated the battle. Nevertheless, the man fought. Sometimes, even, it was the man who attacked the cannon. He crept along the side, bar and rope in hand, and the cannon had the air of understanding, and fled as if it perceived a snare. The man pursued it, formidable, fearless. Such a duel could not last long. The gun seemed suddenly to say to itself, “Come, we must make an end!” and it paused. One felt the approach of the crisis. The cannon, as if in suspense, appeared to have, or had—because it seemed to all a sentient being—a furious premeditation. It sprang unexpectedly upon the gunner. He jumped aside, let it pass, and cried out with a laugh, “Try again!” The gun, as if in a fury, broke a carronade to larboard; then, seized anew by the invisible sling which held it, was flung to starboard toward the man, who escaped. Three carronades gave way under the blows of the gun; then, as if blind and no longer conscious of what it was doing, it turned its back on the man, rolled from the stern to the bow, bruising the stem and making a breach in the plankings of the prow. The gunner had taken refuge at the foot of the stairs, a few steps from the old man, who was watching. The gunner held his handspike in rest. The cannon seemed to perceive him, and, without taking the trouble to turn itself, backed upon him with the quickness of an ax-stroke. The gunner, if driven back against the side, was lost. The crew uttered a simultaneous cry. But the old passenger, until now immovable, made a spring more rapid than all those wild whirls. He seized a bale of the false assignats, and at the risk of being crushed, succeeded in flinging it between the wheels of the carronade. This maneuver, decisive and dangerous, could not have been executed with more adroitness and precision by a man trained to all the exercises set down in Durosel’s “Manual of Sea Gunnery.” The bale had the effect of a plug. A pebble may stop a log, a tree branch turn an avalanche. The carronade stumbled. The gunner, in his turn, seizing this terrible chance, plunged his iron bar between the spokes of one of the hind wheels. The cannon was stopped. It staggered. The man, using the bar as a lever, rocked it to and fro.

152 Victor Hugo The heavy mass turned over with a clang like a falling bell, and the gunner, dripping with sweat, rushed forward headlong and passed the slipping-noose of the tiller rope above the bronze neck of the overthrown monster. It was ended. The man had conquered. The ant had subdued the mastodon; the pigmy had taken the thunderbolt prisoner. The marines and the sailors clapped their hands. The whole crew hurried down with cables and chains, and in an instant the cannon was securely lashed. The gunner saluted the passenger. “Sir,” he said to him, “you have saved my life.” The old man had resumed his impassible attitude, and did not reply. The man had conquered, but one might say that the cannon had conquered also. Immediate shipwreck had been avoided, but the corvette was by no means saved. The dilapidation of the vessel seemed irremediable. The sides had five breaches, one of which, very large, was in the bow. Out of the thirty carronades, twenty lay useless in their frames. The carronade, which had been captured and rechained, was itself disabled; the screw of the breech button was forced, and the leveling of the piece impossible in consequence. The battery was reduced to nine pieces. The hold had sprung a leak. It was necessary at once to repair the damages and set the pumps to work. The gun deck, now that one had time to look about it, offered a terrible spectacle. The interior of a mad elephant’s cage could not have been more completely dismantled. However great the necessity that the corvette should escape observation, a still more imperious necessity presented itself—immediate safety. It had been necessary to light up the deck by lanterns placed here and there along the sides. But during the whole time this tragic diversion had lasted, the crew were so absorbed by the one question of life or death that they noticed little what was passing outside the scene of the duel. The fog had thickened; the weather had changed; the wind had driven the vessel at will; it had got out of its route, in plain sight of Jersey and Guernsey, farther to the south than it ought to have gone, and it was surrounded by a troubled sea. The great waves kissed the gaping wounds of the corvette—kisses full of peril. The sea rocked her menacingly. The breeze became a gale. A squall, a tempest perhaps, threatened. It was impossible to see before one four oars’ length. While the crew were repairing summarily and in haste the ravages of

153TH E BATTLE WITH TH E CAN NON the gun deck, stopping the leaks and putting back into position the guns which had escaped the disaster, the old passenger had gone on deck. He stood with his back against the mainmast. He had paid no attention to a proceeding which had taken place on the vessel. The Chevalier Le Vieuville had drawn up the marines in line on either side of the mainmast, and at the whistle of the boatswain the sailors busy in the rigging stood upright on the yards. Count du Boisberthelot advanced toward the passenger. Behind the captain marched a man, haggard, breathless, his dress in disorder, yet wearing a satisfied look under it all. It was the gunner who had just now so opportunely shown himself a tamer of monsters, and who had got the better of the cannon. The count made a military salute to the unknown in peasant garb, and said to him— “General, here is the man.” The gunner held himself erect, his eyes downcast, standing in a soldierly attitude. Count du Boisberthelot continued— “General, taking into consideration what this man has done, do you not think there is something for his commanders to do?” “I think there is,” said the old man. “Be good enough to give the orders,” returned Boisberthelot. “It is for you to give them. You are the captain.” “But you are the general,” answered Boisberthelot. The old man looked at the gunner. “Approach,” said he. The gunner moved forward a step. The old man turned toward Count du Boisberthelot, detached the cross of Saint Louis from the captain’s uniform and fastened it on the jacket of the gunner. “Hurrah!” cried the sailors. The marines presented arms. The old passenger, pointing with his finger toward the bewildered gunner, added— “Now let that man be shot.” Stupor succeeded the applause. Then, in the midst of a silence like that of the tomb, the old man raised his voice. He said— “A negligence has endangered this ship. At this moment she is perhaps lost. To be at sea is to face the enemy. A vessel at open sea is an army which gives battle. The tempest conceals, but does not absent itself. The whole sea is an ambuscade.

154 Victor Hugo “Death is the penalty of any fault committed in the face of the enemy. No fault is reparable. Courage ought to be rewarded and negligence punished.” These words fell one after the other, slowly, solemnly, with a sort of inexorable measure, like the blows of an ax upon an oak. And the old man, turning to the soldiers, added— “Do your duty.” The man upon whose breast shone the cross of Saint Louis bowed his head. At a sign from Count du Boisberthelot, two sailors descended between decks, then returned, bringing the hammock winding sheet. The ship’s chaplain, who since the time of sailing had been at prayer in the officers’ quarters, accompanied the two sailors; a sergeant detached from the line twelve marines, whom he arranged in two ranks, six by six; the gunner, without uttering a word, placed himself between the two files. The chaplain, crucifix in hand, advanced and stood near him. “March!” said the sergeant. The platoon moved with slow steps toward the bow. The two sailors who carried the shroud followed. A gloomy silence fell upon the corvette. A hurricane moaned in the distance. A moment later gunfire sounded in the shadows, a light flashed, and all was silent; then came the sound of a body falling into the sea. The foregoing consists of Part I, Book II, Chapters IV–VI of Victor Hugo’s NINETY-THREE.

155 Guy de Maupassant 1850–1893 Guy de Maupassant, a stockbroker’s son, was born at the châteauof Miromesnil, near Dieppe, France, on August 5, 1850. He grew up on his mother’s estate at Étretat, in a crowd of sailors’ and peasants’ children. In 1867 he entered Caen University with the intention of studying law. But he got his real education as the disciple of Gustave Flaubert. Flaubert went over his manuscripts and introduced him to such Sunday intimates as Zola, Daudet, and Turgenev. Maupassant left school to serve in the army during the Franco- Prussian War of 1870. When he was discharged the next year, he took a job as a clerk in the Ministry of Marine. Like Monet, Mallarmé, and others, he was fond of boating on the Seine. He published a first book, Some Verses, in 1880. That same year Zola and his circle of young writers brought out a joint collection of stories about the war of 1870, called Evenings at Médan. Maupassant’s contribution, Boule de suif (“Ball of Tallow”), made him instantly famous. Between that year and his final mental breakdown in 1891, he produced work enough to fill thirty books. In 1881 he brought out a first book of stories, La Maison Tellier. In 1883 came a novel, A Life, and two books of stories, Mademoiselle Fifi and Tales of the Woodcock. Four books of stories—Moonlight, The Rondoli Sisters, Yvette, and Miss Harriet— appeared the following year. In 1885 he published Bel-Ami, a novel about a cynical Parisian journalist. His work sold so well that he was able to buy a small yacht for cruising on the Mediterranean. He named her “Bel Ami.” Out of this came two books of Mediterranean impressions, On the Water and The Roving Life. He published four more novels—Mont- Oriol, Pierre and Jean, Strong as Death, and Our Heart—plus such

156 Guy de Maupassant later volumes of stories as The Horla, Madame Husson’s Rosebush, and The Useless Beauty. He is remarkable for his precise craftsmanship, his eye for the timelessly human, and his austere loyalty to “the plain truth” as he saw it. In 1892, when he felt his mind giving way, he tried to commit suicide at Cannes. He died in Paris on July 6, 1893. He writes a scant 2,500 words in the exact, impersonal tone of amilitary history, and there it is—Two Friends, a small masterpiece about war and death and nature, the honor and happiness of ordinary men. It happens at Colombes, along that second hook of the Seine that lies northwest of the center of Paris. But it might have happened anywhere, in any war—on the Scamander River before Troy, or along the Wei River in one of China’s thousand wars, or at Vicksburg on the Mississippi in the American Civil War. At the same time we recognize its quality as distinctively Parisian and French. It takes place toward the end of the Franco-Prussian War, during the siege of Paris, when Victor Hugo recorded that he ate rat and the skill of any great chef might be tested by a demand that he cook a ragout of hippopotamus or a haunch of leopard from the zoo. So, to their old and serene delight in fishing for fishing’s sake, M. Morissot the watchmaker and M. Sauvage the draper (dry goods dealer) now add the motive of simple hunger. And for once the Seine promises to feed her children well. We have seen how charmingly, and with what right touches, Maupassant caught the city men’s pleasure in the serenity of their countryside—the hot morning evaporation of mist from the spring river. Now they are back again, at their favorite perch along the bank, on the first fine day of the year. But nothing is quite the same. War has touched the river, the plain, the heights at Sannois with her dark wing. And in a little while the guns on the fortified summit of Mont Valérien, west of the Bois de Boulogne, begin to speak. Notes from the artist: “. . . the style of the de Maupassant portrait is boldly French. The robust figures at the left are a reworking of an illustration in an early edition of La Maison Tellier, a volume of de Maupassant’s short stories published in 1881.”

158 Guy de Maupassant “There they are, at it again,” says M. Sauvage. It is perfectly put. It says everything. For the moment, he and M. Morissot, as usual entirely in accord on the primary things, are not Frenchmen or Parisians, Royalists or Republicans, or even fishermen. They are simply men— plain men, who know in their bones what war is, and that nothing good can come of it. They discuss it calmly, with distaste, reasonable even when they disagree as to which party may be responsible for it. But the sun is high and their little bounty of gudgeon wriggles and glints in the net bag. We feel suddenly the rightness of Maupassant’s symbol: that those fish are life—life saved from hunger, life out of the pleasant river of peace, life in all its squirming aliveness. Then suddenly there are men “dressed like liveried footmen.” M. Morissot and M. Sauvage stand before a “hairy giant . . . smoking a long porcelain pipe.” We know that giant. He is the ogre out of the fairy tales. He is the man in every war who never loses his appetite over other people’s deaths. He is made for war, and war is made for him. He presents them with a simple choice: betray the password, or die. So, with their own lives and honor at stake, they must take part in this war they want nothing to do with. They must choose. And the bag of fish, like life itself, lies wriggling at their feet. It is precisely here that Maupassant makes his deepest point. M. Morissot and M. Sauvage—who are they but Everyman in peace and war? They fish in a placid river and are suddenly confronted with the instant choice of life or death. Can they betray their country? And if not, is it themselves they must betray?

159 Two Friends aris was surrounded, starving, at its last gasp. There were fewer and fewer sparrows on the roofs. The sewers had been emptied of their population. People were eating anything they could find. One bright January morning, as Monsieur Morissot, a watchmaker by profession, and a man who loved to take his ease when occasion offered, was strolling in a melancholy mood along the outer boulevard, with his hands in the pockets of his army trousers and a void in his stomach, he ran into a man whom he immediately recognized. It was Monsieur Sauvage, a riverside acquaintance. Every Sunday morning before the war, Monsieur Morissot had been in the habit of setting off early, with a bamboo rod in his hand and a tin box slung on his back. He took the Argenteuil train, got out at Colombes, and walked to the small island which goes by the name of Marante. As soon as he reached this place of his dreams, he settled down to fish, and he fished till nightfall. A tubby, jovial little man was always there before him, a draper from the Rue Notre-Dame-de-Lorette, as fanatical an angler as himself. They frequently spent half the day sitting side-by-side, rod in hand, and their feet dangling over the stream. They had become fast friends. Sometimes they did not talk at all. Sometimes they chatted, but so alike were their tastes and their reactions, and so perfect their understanding of each other, that words were unnecessary. Sometimes, on spring mornings, about ten o’clock, when the early sun had laid on the still surface of the river a faint mist, which flowed with the current, and beat down on the backs of the two enthusiasts with the welcome warmth of the waxing season, Morissot would say to his neighbor, “Lovely, isn’t it?” And Monsieur Sauvage would reply, “I don’t know anything lovelier.” That simple exchange was enough to bring complete understanding between them, and make them like one another the more.

160 Guy de Maupassant On autumn afternoons, when the day was nearing its end and the setting sun reddened the sky, when the water reflected crimson clouds and the far horizon seemed all ablaze, when the figures of the two friends seemed lit by fire, and the trees, already turning red, glowed and shivered with a foretaste of winter, Monsieur Sauvage would smile at Morissot and say: “That’s a sight for sore eyes.” And Morissot, struck with the wonder of it all, but keeping his eyes firmly fixed on his float, would answer: “Better than the boulevard, eh?” No sooner had the two friends recognized each other, than they shook hands warmly, caught up in a little eddy of emotion at meeting thus again in such different circumstances. Monsieur Sauvage sighed and said: “What times we live in!” And Morissot, all gloom, lamented: “And what a lovely day! The first really good weather of the year!” That was undeniable, for the sky was an unclouded, brilliant blue. They walked together, side-by-side, thoughtful and sad. “Remember our fishing?” said Morissot. “Those were the days.” “Will they ever come again, I wonder?” said Monsieur Sauvage. They went into a little café and had an absinthe each. Then they resumed their walk along the pavement. Suddenly Morissot pulled up short: “What about another?” “I’m with you,” said Monsieur Sauvage, and they turned in at a second bar. By the time they left it they were slightly fuddled, as men are apt to be after drinking spirits on an empty stomach. The day was mild, and a pleasant breeze fanned their faces. Monsieur Sauvage had been made more than a little drunk by the air. He stopped and put a question: “Why shouldn’t we have a shot?” “What at?” “Fishing.” “Where?” “At our island, of course. The French outposts are close to Colombes. I know the colonel in command—a chap called Dumoulin. He won’t make any difficulties.” Quivering with anticipation Morissot acquiesced: “Done. I’m with you.” And the two friends separated to get their equipment. An hour later they were striding together down the main road. They reached the villa in which the colonel had established his headquarters. He smiled at their odd request, but readily gave his consent. They started off again, armed with the necessary permit. In next to no time they had crossed the outpost line, passed through

161TWO F R I E N D S Colombes which had been evacuated, and found themselves on the edge of a small vineyard which sloped down to the Seine. It was about eleven o’clock. Opposite them the village of Argenteuil seemed dead. The heights of Orgemont and Sannois dominated the countryside. The great plain which stretches as far as Nanterre was empty, completely empty, with its leafless cherry trees and gray soil. Monsieur Sauvage pointed with his finger at the high ground. “The Prussians are up there,” he said. A sort of paralysis seized upon the two friends as they gazed at the desert before them. The Prussians! They had never set eyes on them, but for months and months they had been conscious of their presence on every side, bringing ruin on France, looting, murdering, spreading starvation, invisible, irresistible. A sort of superstitious dread was added to the hate they felt for that unknown and victorious race. Hesitant and fearful, Morissot said: “Suppose we met some of them?” In spite of everything, the mocking note of the Paris streets sounded in his friend’s reply: “We would offer them a fish fry!” But they still hesitated before venturing into the open country, for they were intimidated by the vast spread of silence round them. It was Monsieur Sauvage who finally took the plunge. “We’d better get going,” he said, “but keep your weather eye open!” They clambered down through the vines, bent double, crawling on hands and knees, taking advantage of the cover offered by the bushes, their ears pricked. They still had a strip of open ground to cross before they could get to the river bank. They broke into a run, and, when they reached it, went to earth in a thicket of dry reeds. Morissot put his ear to the ground to catch the sound of footsteps. He heard nothing. They were alone. Plucking up their courage, they began to fish. Immediately in front, the deserted island of Marante hid them from the other bank. The little restaurant was closed, and looked as though it had been abandoned for years. Monsieur Sauvage caught the first gudgeon, Morissot the second, and then, with scarcely a pause, they kept jerking up their rods with little silver creatures flickering at the end of their lines. A miraculous draught of fish, indeed! Carefully, they put their haul into a fine-meshed net dangling in the water at their feet, and a delicious joy took hold of them, the joy that comes

162 Guy de Maupassant when a favorite pleasure is resumed after long months of deprivation. The kindly sun sent a ripple of warmth between their shoulder blades. There was not a sound to be heard, nor was there a thought in their heads. The world was all forgotten. They were fishing. But, suddenly, a dull, a seemingly subterranean sound made the earth tremble. The big guns were at it again. Morissot turned his head, and above the bank, away to the left, he saw the great bulk of Mont Valérien with, on its head, a white plume, a drift of smoke which it had just spewed out. Almost immediately a second jet of smoke leaped from the summit of the fort, and a few moments later the noise of a second detonation reached their ears. Others followed, and at brief intervals the mount puffed out its death- dealing breath, spreading clouds of milky vapor which slowly rose into the peaceful sky, covering it with a pall. Monsieur Sauvage shrugged. “There they are, at it again,” he said. Morissot, who was anxiously watching the little feather on his float bobbing up and down, was suddenly filled with the anger of a man of peace at the maniacs with no thought for anything but fighting. “Only fools,” he grunted, “would go on killing each other like that!” “They’re worse than fools,” said Monsieur Sauvage. Morissot, who had just landed a fish, burst out with: “Nothing’ll ever change so long as there are governments!” Monsieur Sauvage corrected him: “A republic would never have declared war . . .” But Morissot cut him short: “With kings there are foreign wars; with republics, civil strife.” Without heat they started arguing the great political issues, showing all the sweet reasonableness of peace-loving men who cannot see beyond their noses. On one thing only they agreed: that mankind would never be free. And all the while Mont Valérien kept thundering, bringing destruction on French homes, grinding flesh and blood to dust, crushing human bodies, and bringing to the hearts of women, girls, and mothers in other lands an endless suffering. “Such is life,” said Monsieur Sauvage. “Say, rather, such is death,” laughed Morissot. They both gave a frightened start. They had a feeling that somebody was moving behind them. Turning their heads they saw, standing at their backs, four great hulking brutes, armed and bearded, dressed like liveried footmen, with flat caps on their heads, and rifles leveled. The rods dropped from their hands and went floating down the river.

163TWO F R I E N D S In a matter of seconds they were seized, carried off, flung into a boat, and ferried across to the island. Behind the building they had thought deserted, they saw about twenty German soldiers. A sort of hairy giant astride upon a chair and smoking a long porcelain pipe, asked them in excellent French: “Did you have good fishing, gentlemen?” One of the soldiers laid the net filled with fish at the officer’s feet. The Prussian smiled: “Not too bad, I see. But we have other things to think about. Just listen to me and don’t worry. “So far as I am concerned you are two spies sent to keep a watch on me. I have taken you and I shall shoot you. You have been pretending to fish, the better to conceal your real intentions. You have fallen into my hands. So much the worse for you: but war is war. “Since, however, you came through your own lines, I take it that you have been given the countersign which will enable you to return the same way. Give that countersign to me and I will spare your lives.” The two friends stood side-by-side with ashen faces. Their hands were twitching nervously, but they said nothing. The officer went on: “No one will be the wiser. You will return undisturbed. The secret will go with you. If you refuse, you die—instantly. Which will you choose?” They still stood motionless. Not a word came from them. Quite calmly, the Prussian pointed to the river, and continued: “In five minutes you will be at the bottom of that. Five minutes. I suppose you have relatives?” Mont Valérien was still thundering. The two fishermen stood perfectly still and silent. The German gave an order in his own language. Then he moved his chair so as not to be too close to the prisoners, and twelve men marched up and halted at a distance of twenty paces, their rifles at the order. “I give you one minute now, not a second more.” Then he got quickly to his feet, approached the two Frenchmen, took Morissot by the arm, and led him to one side. In a low voice, he said: “Give me the countersign. Your friend need know nothing. I will make it look as though I have relented.” Morissot said nothing. The Prussian repeated the maneuver with Monsieur Sauvage, and made the same suggestion to him. Monsieur Sauvage said nothing. They were back as they had been, side-by-side.

164 Guy de Maupassant The officer gave an order. The soldiers raised their rifles. Morissot’s eyes happened to fall on the netful of gudgeon lying in the grass quite close to him. A ray of sunshine fell on the pile of still-squirming fish, and made them glitter. He was guilty of a moment’s weakness. In spite of his effort to hold them back, two tears came into his eyes. “Good-by, Monsieur Sauvage,” he said unsteadily. “Good-by, Monsieur Morissot,” Monsieur Sauvage said. They shook hands, trembling uncontrollably from head to foot. “Fire!” shouted the officer. The twelve shots rang out like one. Monsieur Sauvage fell forward like a log. Morissot, who was taller, swayed, spun round, and collapsed across his friend. He lay with his face to the sky, a few drops of blood bubbling from holes in the front of his coat. The German issued some further orders. His men scattered and came back with some lengths of rope and a few stones which they fastened to the feet of the dead men. Then they carried them to the bank. Mont Valérien was still thundering. By this time there was a great mountain of smoke above it. Two soldiers lifted Morissot by the head and feet. Two others did the same with Monsieur Sauvage. The bodies were swung violently backwards and forwards for a few moments, then pitched into the river, where they fell feet foremost, the stones weighting them down. The water splashed, seethed, quivered, then grew calm again. A few small ripples broke against the bank. A little blood floated on the surface. The officer, still entirely unperturbed, said, in a low voice: “It is the fishes’ turn now.” He noticed the net of gudgeon on the grass. He picked it up, looked it over, smiled and called: “Wilhelm!” A soldier in a white apron hurried up. The officer threw him the haul of the two shot fishermen, and said: “Fry these little creatures, quickly, while they are still alive. They will be delicious.” Then, he returned to his pipe. Translated by Gerard Hopkins.

165 Ernest Hemingway 1899–1961 Ernest Hemingway was born in Oak Park, Illinois, July 21, 1899.In high school, he made the football and swimming teams and served as class editor. He became a reporter on the Kansas City Star. In early 1918, he joined an American ambulance unit on the Italian front. Wounded by a trench mortar grenade near Piave, he spent three months in a hospital. He enlisted in the Italian infantry and was commissioned a lieutenant in the field. After World War I, Hemingway worked for the Toronto Star and the Chicago Tribune. In 1921 he married Hadley Richardson and went back to Europe as a correspondent. His first book, Three Stories and Ten Poems, appeared in 1923. The following year he published in our time (it was succeeded by an expanded version, In Our Time, in 1925). “You are all a lost generation,” Gertrude Stein said to him; and this became the legend for his famous first novel, The Sun Also Rises. A book of stories, Men Without Women, was followed by A Farewell to Arms in 1929. This novel clinched his enormous reputation. He was divorced, married Pauline Pfeiffer, and moved to Key West, Florida. He fished the Gulf Stream (a rosefish, Neomerinthe hemingwayi, has been named after him). In the early 1930’s, he published a book in praise of bullfighting, Death in the Afternoon; a third collection of stories, Winner Take Nothing; and Green Hills of Africa, a narrative of big-game hunting. His fourth novel, To Have and Have Not, was brought out in 1937. Out of his experience as a correspondent in the Spanish Civil War came The Fifth Column, a play; the narration for Joris Ivens’ motion picture, The Spanish Earth; and in 1940 his most popular novel, For Whom the Bell Tolls. He was divorced, married Martha Gell-

166 Ernest Hemingway horn, and settled in Cuba. During World War II, he took part in the Normandy invasion as a correspondent and entered Paris somewhat in advance of the main body of troops. He was divorced in 1944 and married Mary Welsh. A sixth novel appeared in 1950. Three years later, The Old Man and the Sea was awarded a Pulitzer Prize. Hemingway received the 1954 Nobel Prize for literature. His clear and powerful style and his devotion to the elemental simplicities of being earned him a world audience. He died from a gunshot wound in Ketchum, Idaho, on July 2, 1961. The Killers is one of Hemingway’s earlier stories and belongs among his most famous. It creates a representative incident from that almost unbelievable memory, the world of prohibition America in the 1920’s, and puts it down for us in its own living terms. Even if we have never known such a world, we are persuaded—for the term of the story, at least—to live in it. We feel the chill, quiet autumn evening in a small town and catch the warm smell of ham and eggs frying in the lunchroom. The tone is true, the people are as such people would be, the speech is faithful. Hemingway did not invent this speech. He listened to it and refined it into a formal style. Who are the killers of the title? Do we need to be told that they are members of a criminal gang, or hired professionals, detailed to murder a man who has in some way offended against the gangland code? In the argot of the period, they would be called torpedoes or rods or trigger men. We gather at once, from their clothes and speech, and especially from their contempt for the town of Summit, that they are big-city men. They look “like a vaudeville team” and they talk like partners in a vaudeville act. Their idiom is a coarse irony, sharpened here and there with wit. Its purpose is intimidation. They eat with their gloves on. Professional killers do not leave fingerprints. Their mere presence is an eruption of drama in the twilight dol- Notes from the artist: “. . . an interpretation of ‘Papa’ Hemingway in a contemporary manner, suggesting the great strength of his literary style and of his person. An ‘architectural’ technique of drawing was used to create an atmosphere of solidity and power.”

168 Ernest Hemingway drums of the small town. It is as if a squad of enemy soldiers had moved in and set up a machine-gun post. This suggests one of the remarkable virtues of the story: that it defines precisely, in one symbolic incident, the relation of the gangs to ordinary American life in the 1920’s. George, Nick, and Sam behave as any ordinary people might under the circumstances. They do what they are told, in the expectation that, if they do, they will not be hurt. Later, when Nick promises to go and see Andreson, Sam voices the typical attitude in such a situation. “You better not have anything to do with it at all,” Sam says. “You better stay way out of it.” The story achieves great intensity at the end, even though the ending seems to dissolve or drift away. Here Hemingway shows his extraordinary ability to suggest emotion with such homely details as the false tranquillity of an arc light among bare branches. Young Nick Adams’ courage, his horror at the trap, his willingness to help—all these stand baffled before the great hulk on the bed in Mrs. Hirsch’s rooming house.

169 The Killers he door of Henry’s lunchroom opened and two men came in. They sat down at the counter. “What’s yours?” George asked them. “I don’t know,” one of the men said. “What do you want to eat, Al?” “I don’t know,” said Al. “I don’t know what I want to eat.” Outside it was getting dark. The street-light came on outside the window. The two men at the counter read the menu. From the other end of the counter Nick Adams watched them. He had been talking to George when they came in. “I’ll have a roast pork tenderloin with applesauce and mashed potatoes,” the first man said. “It isn’t ready yet.” “What the hell do you put it on the card for?” “That’s the dinner,” George explained. “You can get that at six o’clock.” George looked at the clock on the wall behind the counter. “It’s five o’clock.” “The clock says twenty minutes past five,” the second man said. “It’s twenty minutes fast.” “Oh, to hell with the clock,” the first man said. “What have you got to eat?” “I can give you any kind of sandwiches,” George said. “You can have ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver and bacon, or a steak.” “Give me chicken croquettes with green peas and cream sauce and mashed potatoes.” “That’s the dinner.” “Everything we want’s the dinner, eh? That’s the way you work it.” “I can give you ham and eggs, bacon and eggs, liver—” “I’ll take ham and eggs,” the man called Al said. He wore a derby hat

170 Ernest Hemingway and a black overcoat buttoned across the chest. His face was small and white and he had tight lips. He wore a silk muffler and gloves. “Give me bacon and eggs,” said the other man. He was about the same size as Al. Their faces were different, but they were dressed like twins. Both wore overcoats too tight for them. They sat leaning forward, their elbows on the counter. “Got anything to drink?” Al asked. “Silver beer, bevo, ginger ale,” George said. “I mean you got anything to drink?” “Just those I said.” “This is a hot town,” said the other. “What do they call it?” “Summit.” “Ever hear of it?” Al asked his friend. “No,” said the friend. “What do you do here nights?” Al asked. “They eat the dinner,” his friend said. “They all come here and eat the big dinner.” “That’s right,” George said. “So you think that’s right?” Al asked George. “Sure.” “You’re a pretty bright boy, aren’t you?” “Sure,” said George. “Well, you’re not,” said the other little man. “Is he, Al?” “He’s dumb,” said Al. He turned to Nick. “What’s your name?” “Adams.” “Another bright boy,” Al said. “Ain’t he a bright boy, Max?” “The town’s full of bright boys,” Max said. George put the two platters, one of ham and eggs, the other of bacon and eggs, on the counter. He set down two side dishes of fried potatoes and closed the wicket into the kitchen. “Which is yours?” he asked Al. “Don’t you remember?” “Ham and eggs.” “Just a bright boy,” Max said. He leaned forward and took the ham and eggs. Both men ate with their gloves on. George watched them eat. “What are you looking at?” Max looked at George. “Nothing.” “The hell you were. You were looking at me.” “Maybe the boy meant it for a joke, Max,” Al said. George laughed.

171TH E K I LLE R S “You don’t have to laugh,” Max said to him. “You don’t have to laugh at all, see?” “All right,” said George. “So he thinks it’s all right.” Max turned to Al. “He thinks it’s all right. That’s a good one.” “Oh, he’s a thinker,” Al said. They went on eating. “What’s the bright boy’s name down the counter?” Al asked Max. “Hey, bright boy,” Max said to Nick. “You go around on the other side of the counter with your boy friend.” “What’s the idea?” Nick asked. “There isn’t any idea.” “You better go around, bright boy,” Al said. Nick went around behind the counter. “What’s the idea?” George asked. “None of your damn business,” Al said. “Who’s out in the kitchen?” “The nigger.” “What do you mean the nigger?” “The nigger that cooks.” “Tell him to come in.” “What’s the idea?” “Tell him to come in.” “Where do you think you are?” “We know damn well where we are,” the man called Max said. “Do we look silly?” “You talk silly,” Al said to him. “What the hell do you argue with this kid for? Listen,” he said to George, “tell the nigger to come out here.” “What are you going to do to him?” “Nothing. Use your head, bright boy. What would we do to a nigger?” George opened the slit that opened back into the kitchen. “Sam,” he called. “Come in here a minute.” The door to the kitchen opened and the nigger came in. “What was it?” he asked. The two men at the counter took a look at him. “All right, nigger. You stand right there,” Al said. Sam, the nigger, standing in his apron, looked at the two men sitting at the counter. “Yes, sir,” he said. Al got down from his stool. “I’m going back to the kitchen with the nigger and bright boy,” he said. “Go on back to the kitchen, nigger. You go with him, bright boy.” The little man walked after Nick and Sam, the cook, back into the kitchen. The door shut after them. The man called Max sat at the counter opposite George. He didn’t look at George but looked in the mirror that

172 Ernest Hemingway ran along back of the counter. Henry’s had been made over from a saloon into a lunch counter. “Well, bright boy,” Max said, looking into the mirror, “why don’t you say something?” “What’s it all about?” “Hey, Al,” Max called, “bright boy wants to know what it’s all about.” “Why don’t you tell him?” Al’s voice came from the kitchen. “What do you think it’s all about?” “I don’t know.” “What do you think?” Max looked into the mirror all the time he was talking. “I wouldn’t say.” “Hey, Al, bright boy says he wouldn’t say what he thinks it’s all about.” “I can hear you, all right,” Al said from the kitchen. He had propped open the slit that dishes passed through into the kitchen with a catsup bottle. “Listen, bright boy,” he said from the kitchen to George. “Stand a little further along the bar. You move a little to the left, Max.” He was like a photographer arranging for a group picture. “Talk to me, bright boy,” Max said. “What do you think’s going to happen?” George did not say anything. “I’ll tell you,” Max said. “We’re going to kill a Swede. Do you know a big Swede named Ole Andreson?” “Yes.” “He comes here to eat every night, don’t he?” “Sometimes he comes here.” “He comes here at six o’clock, don’t he?” “If he comes.” “We know all that, bright boy,” Max said. “Talk about something else. Ever go to the movies?” “Once in a while.” “You ought to go to the movies more. The movies are fine for a bright boy like you.” “What are you going to kill Ole Andreson for? What did he ever do to you?” “He never had a chance to do anything to us. He never even seen us.” “And he’s only going to see us once,” Al said from the kitchen. “What are you going to kill him for, then?” George asked. “We’re killing him for a friend. Just to oblige a friend, bright boy.” “Shut up,” said Al from the kitchen. “You talk too goddam much.”

173TH E K I LLE R S “Well, I got to keep bright boy amused. Don’t I, bright boy?” “You talk too damn much,” Al said. “The nigger and my bright boy are amused by themselves. I got them tied up like a couple of girl friends in the convent.” “I suppose you were in a convent.” “You never know.” “You were in a kosher convent. That’s where you were.” George looked up at the clock. “If anybody comes in you tell them the cook is off, and if they keep after it, you tell them you’ll go back and cook yourself. Do you get that, bright boy?” “All right,” George said. “What you going to do with us afterward?” “That’ll depend,” Max said. “That’s one of those things you never know at the time.” George looked up at the clock. It was a quarter past six. The door from the street opened. A streetcar motorman came in. “Hello, George,” he said. “Can I get supper?” “Sam’s gone out,” George said. “He’ll be back in about half an hour.” “I’d better go up the street,” the motorman said. George looked at the clock. It was twenty minutes past six. “That was nice, bright boy,” Max said. “You’re a regular little gentleman.” “He knew I’d blow his head off,” Al said from the kitchen. “No,” said Max. “It ain’t that. Bright boy is nice. He’s a nice boy. I like him.” At six-fifty-five George said: “He’s not coming.” Two other people had been in the lunchroom. Once George had gone out to the kitchen and made a ham-and-egg sandwich “to go” that a man wanted to take with him. Inside the kitchen he saw Al, his derby hat tipped back, sitting on a stool beside the wicket with the muzzle of a sawed-off shotgun resting on the ledge. Nick and the cook were back to back in the corner, a towel tied in each of their mouths. George had cooked the sandwich, wrapped it up in oiled paper, put it in a bag, brought it in, and the man had paid for it and gone out. “Bright boy can do everything,” Max said. “He can cook and everything. You’d make some girl a nice wife, bright boy.” “Yes?” George said. “Your friend, Ole Andreson, isn’t going to come.” “We’ll give him ten minutes,” Max said. Max watched the mirror and the clock. The hands of the clock marked seven o’clock, and then five minutes past seven.

174 Ernest Hemingway “Come on, Al,” said Max. “We better go. He’s not coming.” “Better give him five minutes,” Al said from the kitchen. In the five minutes a man came in, and George explained that the cook was sick. “Why the hell don’t you get another cook?” the man asked. “Aren’t you running a lunch counter?” He went out. “Come on, Al,” Max said. “What about the two bright boys and the nigger?” “They’re all right.” “You think so?” “Sure. We’re through with it.” “I don’t like it,” said Al. “It’s sloppy. You talk too much.” “Oh, what the hell,” said Max. “We got to keep amused, haven’t we?” “You talk too much, all the same,” Al said. He came out from the kitchen. The cut-off barrels of the shotgun made a slight bulge under the waist of his too tight-fitting overcoat. He straightened his coat with his gloved hands. “So long, bright boy,” he said to George. “You got a lot of luck.” “That’s the truth,” Max said. “You ought to play the races, bright boy.” The two of them went out the door. George watched them, through the window, pass under the arc light and across the street. In their tight overcoats and derby hats they looked like a vaudeville team. George went back through the swinging door into the kitchen and untied Nick and the cook. “I don’t want any more of that,” said Sam, the cook. “I don’t want any more of that.” Nick stood up. He had never had a towel in his mouth before. “Say,” he said. “What the hell?” He was trying to swagger it off. “They were going to kill Ole Andreson,” George said. “They were going to shoot him when he came in to eat.” “Ole Andreson?” “Sure.” The cook felt the corners of his mouth with his thumbs. “They all gone?” he asked. “Yeah,” said George.”They’re gone now.” “I don’t like it,” said the cook. “I don’t like any of it at all.” “Listen,” George said to Nick. “You better go see Ole Andreson.” “All right.” “You better not have anything to do with it at all,” Sam, the cook, said. “You better stay way out of it.”

175TH E K I LLE R S “Don’t go if you don’t want to,” George said. “Mixing up in this ain’t going to get you anywhere,” the cook said. “You stay out of it.” “I’ll go see him,” Nick said to George. “Where does he live?” The cook turned away. “Little boys always know what they want to do,” he said. “He lives up at Hirsch’s rooming house,” George said to Nick. “I’ll go up there.” Outside the arc light shone through the bare branches of a tree. Nick walked up the street beside the car tracks and turned at the next arc light down a side street. Three houses up the street was Hirsch’s rooming house. Nick walked up the two steps and pushed the bell. A woman came to the door. “Is Ole Andreson here?” “Do you want to see him?” “Yes, if he’s in.” Nick followed the woman up a flight of stairs and back to the end of a corridor. She knocked on the door. “Who is it?” “It’s somebody to see you, Mr. Andreson,” the woman said. “It’s Nick Adams.” “Come in.” Nick opened the door and went into the room. Ole Andreson was lying on the bed with all his clothes on. He had been a heavyweight prize fighter and he was too long for the bed. He lay with his head on two pillows. He did not look at Nick. “What was it?” he asked. “I was up at Henry’s,” Nick said, “and two fellows came in and tied up me and the cook, and they said they were going to kill you.” It sounded silly when he said it. Ole Andreson said nothing. “They put us out in the kitchen,” Nick went on. “They were going to shoot you when you came in to supper.” Ole Andreson looked at the wall and did not say anything. “George thought I better come and tell you about it.” “There isn’t anything I can do about it,” Ole Andreson said. “I’ll tell you what they were like.” “I don’t want to know what they were like,” Ole Andreson said. He looked at the wall. “Thanks for coming to tell me about it.” “That’s all right.” Nick looked at the big man lying on the bed.

176 Ernest Hemingway “Don’t you want me to go and see the police?” “No,” Ole Andreson said. “That wouldn’t do any good.” “Isn’t there something I could do?” “No. There ain’t anything to do.” “Maybe it was just a bluff.” “No. It ain’t just a bluff.” Ole Andreson rolled over toward the wall. “The only thing is,” he said, talking toward the wall, “I just can’t make up my mind to go out. I been in here all day.” “Couldn’t you get out of town?” “No,” Ole Andreson said. “I’m through with all that running around.” He looked at the wall. “There ain’t anything to do now.” “Couldn’t you fix it up some way?” “No, I got in wrong.” He talked in the same flat voice. “There ain’t anything to do. After a while I’ll make up my mind to go out.” “I better go back and see George,” Nick said. “So long,” said Ole Andreson. He did not look toward Nick. “Thanks for coming around.” Nick went out. As he shut the door he saw Ole Andreson with all his clothes on, lying on the bed looking at the wall. “He’s been in his room all day,” the landlady said downstairs. “I guess he don’t feel well. I said to him: ‘Mr. Andreson, you ought to go out and take a walk on a nice fall day like this,’ but he didn’t feel like it.” “He doesn’t want to go out.” “I’m sorry he don’t feel well,” the woman said. “He’s an awfully nice man. He was in the ring, you know.” “I know it.” “You’d never know it except from the way his face is,” the woman said. They stood talking just inside the street door. “He’s just as gentle.” “Well, good night, Mrs. Hirsch,” Nick said. “I’m not Mrs. Hirsch,” the woman said. “She owns the place. I just look after it for her. I’m Mrs. Bell.” “Well, good night, Mrs. Bell,” Nick said. “Good night,” the woman said. Nick walked up the dark street to the corner under the arc light, and then along the car tracks to Henry’s eating house. George was inside, back to the counter. “Did you see Ole?” “Yes,” said Nick. “He’s in his room and he won’t go out.” The cook opened the door from the kitchen when he heard Nick’s voice.

177TH E K I LLE R S “I don’t even listen to it,” he said and shut the door. “Did you tell him about it?” George asked. “Sure. I told him but he knows what it’s all about.” “What’s he going to do?” “Nothing.” “They’ll kill him.” “I guess they will.” “He must have got mixed up in something in Chicago.” “I guess so,” said Nick. “It’s a hell of a thing.” “It’s an awful thing,” Nick said. They did not say anything. George reached down for a towel and wiped the counter. “I wonder what he did?” Nick said. “Double-crossed somebody. That’s what they kill them for.” “I’m going to get out of this town,” Nick said. “Yes,” said George. “That’s a good thing to do.” “I can’t stand to think about him waiting in the room and knowing he’s going to get it. It’s too damned awful.” “Well,” said George, “you better not think about it.”

178 Sir Walter Scott 1771–1832 Walter Scott was born in Edinburgh, August 15, 1771. He was adescendant of Border clans on both sides. This helped to determine his lifelong bent for Scottish history and tradition. He read law and in 1792 became a member of the faculty of advocates. In 1799 he was made sheriff depute of Selkirkshire and seven years later clerk of session. He held both posts for twenty-five years. In 1796, after an unlucky love affair with Williamina Stuart of Fettercairn, he published some translations from Bürger, a German Romantic poet. The following year he married Charlotte Charpentier, a French refugee. The first installment of his ballad collection, Minstrelsy of the Scottish Border, came out in 1802. Three years later a long poem, The Lay of the Last Minstrel, established his name. Scott began Waverley but put it aside to write Marmion. This “took possession of the public like a kind of madness.” Lady of the Lake, in 1810, was hardly less popular. Scott built his famous house at Abbotsford. In the years up to 1825, beginning with Waverley, his unbelievable industry produced more than a score of novels, including Guy Mannering, Old Mortality, Rob Roy, The Heart of Midlothian, Ivanhoe, Kenilworth, Quentin Durward, Redgauntlet, and The Talisman. Notes from the artist: “. . . a young Scott, superimposed over a facsimile of a school poem (written at age twelve). The standing figure is the mature writer, while woven into the tam is a knight from one of Scott’s novels of chivalry”

180 Sir Walter Scott Then came ruin. Like Balzac and Mark Twain, Scott had tried his hand at printing and publishing, with much the same results. In the financial panic of 1826, the Edinburgh firm he had backed was involved in the crash of two London houses. Scott was personally liable to the tune of £130,000. He sat down to work off the debt. In two years, with such works as The Fair Maid of Perth and a nine-volume Life of Napoleon, Scott returned £40,000 to his creditors. He wrote on. In 1830 he had a first stroke. Others followed. As his mind faded, he began to believe that he had paid off his debt. (It was paid off in full, out of royalties, after his death.) A British Government vessel took him on a cruise of the Mediterranean. He was carried back across Europe and died at Abbotsford, September 21, 1832. Is The Two Drovers the first cowboy story in our literature? Perhaps not. There were cowboys of a sort in James Fenimore Cooper’s The Spy, published in 1821. Scott’s tale did not come along until 1827. It appeared, with two other stories, in Chronicles of the Canongate. This was turned out as a part of Scott’s galloping effort to satisfy his creditors. Like Balzac, Scott often worked best under great pressure. We cannot help noticing that the story is well put together and solidly written. Does it resemble one of our western stories? Yes and no. There are herds being driven to market, a quarrel over grazing land, a fight in a bar, a murder, and a trial. A western story often reaches its crisis in the battle between a cowboy who has a code of honor and an outlaw who despises such limitations. Often, in the western story, a man must make his own law as best he can. In Scott’s story, the final key is the accepted presence of the law. Scottish clansmen, says the judge in the story, “regarded themselves as so many cavaliers or men-at-arms.” Is this not also true of the American cowboy and the Argentine Gaucho, at least as they appear in the romances about them? Scott carries the idea of a code of honor one step farther. He brings two such codes into conflict: the Englishman’s stand-up-and-fight and the Scot’s touch- me-and-you-die. In a rather simple way, these involve two national spirits and traditions, two kinds of upbringing, two unlike breeds of men. Nor can we forget that there is a long history of violence between them.

181Sir Walter Scott Even so, it is the friendship between Robin Oig and Harry Wakefield that gives the story its dark pathos. They are men of a common calling. In everyday things they understand and respect each other. Each is capable of unqualified generosity and shows it. But there is a cloud between them—a cloud their understanding cannot penetrate. In a certain sense, each is a victim of his national code. Does Scott mean to tell us that the wars of nations are like that too? But the act of revenge is done and Robin Oig stands before the court. Now the two clashing ideas of honor come under the rule of a third idea: justice. Of the trial itself, we hear little—why should we? we have seen the evidence—but the judge’s instructions to the jury. (We recall that Scott had passed the bar.) In Melville’s Billy Budd,1 or in Hugo’s “The Battle with the Cannon,”2 we may have certain reservations about the justice of the decisions, because of their coldness. Not so in the trial of Robin Oig. Here the judge’s speech is everywhere touched with a grave and understanding sympathy. 1See Vol. 3, pp. 31–98, in this set. 2See Vol. 2, pp. 146–154, in this set.

182 The Two Drovers CHAPTER I t was the day after Doune Fair when my story commences. It had been a brisk market; several dealers had attended from the northern and midland counties in England, and English money had flown so merrily about as to gladden the hearts of the Highland farmers. Many large droves were about to set off for England, under the protection of their owners, or of the topsmen whom they employed in the tedious, laborious, and responsible office of driving the cattle for many hundred miles, from the market where they had been purchased, to the fields or farm- yards where they were to be fattened for the shambles. The Highlanders, in particular, are masters of this difficult trade of driving, which seems to suit them as well as the trade of war. It affords exercise for all their habits of patient endurance and active exertion. They are required to know perfectly the drove-roads, which lie over the wildest tracts of the country, and to avoid as much as possible the highways, which distress the feet of the bullocks, and the turnpikes, which annoy the spirit of the drover; whereas, on the broad green or grey track, which leads across the pathless moor, the herd not only move at ease and without taxation, but, if they mind their business, may pick up a mouthful of food by the way. At night, the drovers usually sleep along with their cattle, let the weather be what it will; and many of these hardy men do not once rest under a roof during a journey on foot from Lochaber to Lincolnshire. They are paid very highly, for the trust reposed is of the last importance, as it depends on their prudence, vigilance, and honesty whether the cattle reach the final market in good order, and afford a profit to the grazier. But as they maintain themselves at their own expense, they are especially economical in that particular. At the period we speak of, a Highland drover was victualled for his long and toilsome journey with a few handfuls of oatmeal, and two or three onions, renewed

183TH E TWO D ROVE RS from time to time, and a ram’s horn filled with whisky, which he used regularly, but sparingly, every night and morning. His dirk, or skene-dhu [i.e., black knife], so worn as to be concealed beneath the arm, or by the folds of the plaid, was his only weapon, excepting the cudgel with which he directed the movements of the cattle. A Highlander was never so happy as on these occasions. There was a variety in the whole journey, which exercised the Celt’s natural curiosity and love of motion; there were the constant change of place and scene, the petty adventures incidental to the traffic, and the intercourse with the various farmers, graziers, and traders, intermingled with occasional merry-makings, not the less acceptable to Donald that they were void of expense—and there was the consciousness of superior skill; for the Highlander, a child amongst flocks, is a prince amongst herds, and his natural habits induce him to disdain the shepherd’s slothful life, so that he feels himself nowhere more at home than when following a gallant drove of his country cattle in the character of their guardian. Of the number who left Doune in the morning, and with the purpose we described, not a Glunimie [Highlander] of them all cocked his bonnet more briskly or gartered his tartan hose under knee over a pair of more promising spiogs [legs] than did Robin Oig M‘Combich, called familiarly Robin Oig, that is, Young, or the Lesser, Robin. Though small of stature as the epithet Oig implies, and not very strongly limbed, he was as light and alert as one of the deer of his mountains. He had an elasticity of step which, in the course of a long march, made many a stout fellow envy him; and the manner in which he busked his plaid and adjusted his bonnet argued a consciousness that so smart a John Highlandman as himself would not pass unnoticed among the Lowland lasses. The ruddy cheek, red lips, and white teeth set off a countenance which had gained by exposure to the weather a healthful and hardy rather than a rugged hue. If Robin Oig did not laugh, or even smile frequently, as indeed is not the practice among his countrymen, his bright eyes usually gleamed from under his bonnet with an expression of cheerfulness ready to be turned into mirth. The departure of Robin Oig was an incident in the little town, in and near which he had many friends, male and female. He was a topping person in his way, transacted considerable business on his own behalf, and was entrusted by the best farmers in the Highlands in preference to any other drover in that district. He might have increased his business to any extent had he condescended to manage it by deputy; but except a lad or two, sister’s sons of his own, Robin rejected the idea of assistance, con-

184 Sir Walter Scott scious, perhaps, how much his reputation depended upon his attending in person to the practical discharge of his duty in every instance. He remained, therefore, contented with the highest premium given to persons of his description, and comforted himself with the hopes that a few journeys to England might enable him to conduct business on his own account, in a manner becoming his birth. For Robin Oig’s father, Lachlan M‘Combich (or son of my friend, his actual clan surname being M‘Gregor), had been so called by the celebrated Rob Roy, because of the particular friendship which had subsisted between the grandsire of Robin and that renowned cateran. Some people even say that Robin Oig derived his Christian name from one as renowned in the wilds of Loch Lomond as ever was his namesake Robin Hood in the precincts of merry Sherwood. “Of such ancestry,” as James Boswell says, “who would not be proud?” Robin Oig was proud accordingly; but his frequent visits to England and to the Lowlands had given him tact enough to know that pretensions, which still gave him a little right to distinction in his own lonely glen, might be both obnoxious and ridiculous if preferred elsewhere. The pride of birth, therefore, was like the miser’s treasure, the secret subject of his contemplation, but never exhibited to strangers as a subject of boasting. Many were the words of gratulation and good luck which were bestowed on Robin Oig. The judges commended his drove, especially Robin’s own property, which were the best of them. Some thrust out their snuff-mulls for the parting pinch—others tendered the doch-an- dorrach or parting cup. All cried, “Good luck travel out with you and come home with you. Give you luck in the Saxon market—brave notes in the leabhar-dhu” [black pocketbook] “and plenty of English gold in the sporran” [pouch of goatskin]. The bonny lasses made their adieus more modestly, and more than one, it was said, would have given her best brooch to be certain that it was upon her that his eye last rested as he turned towards the road. Robin Oig had just given the preliminary “Hoo-hoo!” to urge forward the loiterers of the drove when there was a cry behind him. “Stay, Robin—bide a blink. Here is Janet of Tomahourich—auld Janet, your father’s sister.” “Plague on her, for an auld Highland witch and spaewife [fortune- teller],” said a farmer from the Carse [fen] of Stirling; “she’ll cast some of her cantrips on the cattle.” “She canna do that,” said another sapient of the same profession, “Robin Oig is no the lad to leave any of them without tying St. Mungo’s knot on

185TH E TWO D ROVE RS their tails, and that will put to her speed the best witch that ever flew over Dimayet upon a broomstick.” It may not be indifferent to the reader to know that the Highland cattle are peculiarly liable to be taken, or infected, by spells and witchcraft; which judicious people guard against by knitting knots of peculiar complexity on the tuft of hair which terminates the animal’s tail. But the old woman who was the object of the farmer’s suspicion seemed only busied about the drover, without paying any attention to the drove. Robin, on the contrary, appeared rather impatient of her presence. “What auld-world fancy,” he said, “has brought you so early from the ingle-side this morning, Muhme? I am sure I bid you good even, and had your God-speed, last night.” “And left me more siller than the useless old woman will use till you come back again, bird of my bosom,” said the sibyl. “But it is little I would care for the food that nourishes me, or the fire that warms me, or for God’s blessed sun itself if aught but weel should happen to the grandson of my father. So let me walk the deasil round you, that you may go safe out into the foreign land, and come safe home.” Robin Oig stopped, half embarrassed, half laughing, and signing to those near that he only complied with the old woman to soothe her humour. In the meantime she traced around him, with wavering steps, the propitiation, which some have thought has been derived from the Druidical mythology. It consists, as is well known, in the person who makes the deasil walking three times round the person who is the object of the ceremony, taking care to move according to the course of the sun. At once, however, she stopped short, and exclaimed, in a voice of alarm and horror, “Grandson of my father, there is blood on your hand.” “Hush, for God’s sake, aunt,” said Robin Oig; “you will bring more trouble on yourself with this taishataragh” [second sight] “than you will be able to get out of for many a day.” The old woman only repeated, with a ghastly look, “There is blood on your hand, and it is English blood. The blood of the Gael is richer and redder. Let us see—let us—” Ere Robin Oig could prevent her, which, indeed, could only have been done by positive violence, so hasty and peremptory were her proceedings, she had drawn from his side the dirk which lodged in the folds of his plaid, and held it up, exclaiming, although the weapon gleamed clear and bright in the sun, “Blood, blood—Saxon blood again. Robin Oig M‘Combich, go not this day to England!”

186 Sir Walter Scott “Prutt trutt,” answered Robin Oig, “that will never do neither—it would be next thing to running the country. For shame, Muhme—give me the dirk. You cannot tell by the colour the difference betwixt the blood of a black bullock and a white one, and you speak of knowing Saxon from Gaelic blood. All men have their blood from Adam, Muhme. Give me my skene-dhu and let me go on my road. I should have been halfway to Stirling Brig by this time. Give me my dirk, and let me go.” “Never will I give it to you,” said the old woman. “Never will I quit my hold on your plaid unless you promise me not to wear that unhappy weapon.” The women around him urged him also, saying few of his aunt’s words fell to the ground; and as the Lowland farmers continued to look moodily on the scene, Robin Oig determined to close it at any sacrifice. “Well, then,” said the young drover, giving the scabbard of the weapon to Hugh Morrison, “you Lowlanders care nothing for these freats. Keep my dirk for me. I cannot give it to you, because it was my father’s; but your drove follows ours, and I am content it should be in your keeping, not in mine. Will this do, Muhme?” “It must,” said the old woman—”that is, if the Lowlander is mad enough to carry the knife.” The strong westlandman laughed aloud. “Goodwife,” said he, “I am Hugh Morrison from Glenae, come of the Manly Morrisons of auld lang syne, that never took short weapon against a man in their lives. And neither needed they. They had their broadswords, and I have this bit supple,” showing a formidable cudgel, “for dirking ower the board, I leave that to John Highlandman. Ye needna snort, none of you Highlanders, and you in especial, Robin. I’ll keep the bit knife, if you are feared for the auld spaewife’s tale, and give it back to you whenever you want it.” Robin was not particularly pleased with some part of Hugh Morrison’s speech; but he had learned in his travels more patience than belonged to his Highland constitution originally, and he accepted the service of the descendant of the Manly Morrisons without finding fault with the rather depreciating manner in which it was offered. “If he had not had his morning in his head, and been but a Dumfriesshire hog into the boot, he would have spoken more like a gentleman. But you cannot have more of a sow than a grumph. It’s shame my father’s knife should ever slash a haggis for the like of him.” Thus saying (but saying it in Gaelic) Robin drove on his cattle, and

187TH E TWO D ROVE RS waved farewell to all behind him. He was in the greater haste, because he expected to join at Falkirk a comrade and brother in profession, with whom he proposed to travel in company. Robin Oig’s chosen friend was a young Englishman, Harry Wakefield by name, well known at every northern market, and in his way as much famed and honoured as our Highland driver of bullocks. He was nearly six feet high, gallantly formed to keep the rounds at Smithfield, or maintain the ring at a wrestling match; and although he might have been overmatched, perhaps, among the regular professors of the Fancy, yet, as a yokel, or rustic, or a chance customer, he was able to give a bellyful to any amateur of the pugilistic art. Doncaster races saw him in his glory, betting his guinea, and generally successfully; nor was there a main fought in Yorkshire, the feeders being persons of celebrity, at which he was not to be seen, if business permitted. But though a sprack lad, and fond of pleasure and its haunts, Harry Wakefield was steady, and not the cautious Robin Oig M‘Combich himself was more attentive to the main chance. His holidays were holidays indeed; but his days of work were dedicated to steady and persevering labour. In countenance and temper, Wakefield was the model of old England’s merry yeomen, whose clothyard shafts, in so many hundred battles, asserted her superiority over the nations, and whose good sabres in our own time are her cheapest and most assured defence. His mirth was readily excited; for, strong in limb and constitution, and fortunate in circumstances, he was disposed to be pleased with everything about him; and such difficulties as he might occasionally encounter were, to a man of his energy, rather matter of amusement than serious annoyance. With all the merits of a sanguine temper, our young English drover was not without his defects. He was irascible, sometimes to the verge of being quarrelsome; and perhaps not the less inclined to bring his disputes to a pugilistic decision because he found few antagonists able to stand up to him in the boxing ring. It is difficult to say how Harry Wakefield and Robin Oig first became intimates; but it is certain a close acquaintance had taken place be- twixt them, although they had apparently few common subjects of conversation or of interest, so soon as their talk ceased to be of bullocks. Robin Oig, indeed, spoke the English language rather imperfectly upon any other topics but stots and kyloes, and Harry Wakefield could never bring his broad Yorkshire tongue to utter a single word of Gaelic. It was in vain Robin spent a whole morning during a walk over Minch Moor in attempting to teach his companion to utter, with true

188 Sir Walter Scott precision, the shibboleth Llhu, which is the Gaelic for a calf. From Traquair to Murdercairn, the hill rang with the discordant attempts of the Saxon upon the unmanageable monosyllable, and the heartfelt laugh which followed every failure. They had, however, better modes of awakening the echoes; for Wakefield could sing many a ditty to the praise of Moll, Susan, and Cicely, and Robin Oig had a particular gift at whistling interminable pibrochs through all their involutions, and what was more agreeable to his companion’s southern ear, knew many of the northern airs, both lively and pathetic, to which Wakefield learned to pipe a bass. This, though Robin could hardly have comprehended his companion’s stories about horse-racing, and cock-fighting or fox-hunting, and although his own legends of clan-fights and creaghs [raids] varied with talk of Highland goblins and fairy folk, would have been caviar to his companion; they contrived nevertheless to find a degree of pleasure in each other’s company, which had for three years back induced them to join company and travel together when the direction of their journey permitted. Each, indeed, found his advantage in this companionship; for where could the Englishman have found a guide through the western Highlands like Robin Oig M‘Combich? And when they were on what Harry called the right side of the border, his patronage, which was extensive, and his purse, which was heavy, were at all times at the service of his Highland friend, and on many occasions his liberality did him genuine yeoman’s service. CHAPTER II Were ever two such loving friends!— How could they disagree? Oh thus it was, he loved him dear, And thought how to requite him, And having no friend left but he, He did resolve to fight him. The pair of friends had traversed with their usual cordiality the grassy wilds of Liddesdale, and crossed the opposite part of Cumberland, emphatically called The Waste. In these solitary regions, the cattle un- der the charge of our drovers derived their subsistence chiefly by pick- ing their food as they went along the drove-road, or sometimes by the tempting opportunity of a start and owerloup, or invasion of the neigh bouring pasture, where an occasion presented itself. But now the

189TH E TWO D ROVE RS scene changed before them; they were descending towards a fertile and enclosed country, where no such liberties could be taken with impunity, or without a previous arrangement and bargain with the possessors of the ground. This was more especially the case, as a great northern fair was upon the eve of taking place, where both the Scotch and English drover expected to dispose of a part of their cattle, which it was desirable to produce in the market, rested and in good order. Fields were therefore difficult to be obtained, and only upon high terms. This necessity occasioned a temporary separation betwixt the two friends, who went to bargain, each as he could, for the separate accommodation of his herd. Unhappily it chanced that both of them, unknown to each other, thought of bargaining for the ground they wanted on the property of a country gentleman of some fortune, whose estate lay in the neighbourhood. The English drover applied to the bailiff on the property, who was known to him. It chanced that the Cumbrian squire, who had entertained some suspicions of his manager’s honesty, was taking occasional measures to ascertain how far they were well founded, and had desired that any inquiries about his enclosures, with a view to occupy them for a temporary purpose, should be referred to himself. As, however, Mr. Ireby had gone the day before upon a journey of some miles’ distance to the northward, the bailiff chose to consider the check upon his full powers as for the time removed, and concluded that he should best consult his master’s interest, and perhaps his own, in making an agreement with Harry Wakefield. Meanwhile, ignorant of what his comrade was doing, Robin Oig, on his side, chanced to be overtaken by a good-looking smart little man upon a pony, most knowingly hogged and cropped, as was then the fashion, the rider wearing tight leather breeches and long-necked bright spurs. This cavalier asked one or two pertinent questions about markets and the price of stock. So Robin, seeing him a well-judging civil gentleman, took the freedom to ask him whether he could let him know if there was any grass-land to be let in that neighbourhood, for the temporary accommodation of his drove. He could not have put the question to more willing ears. The gentleman of the buckskin was the proprietor with whose bailiff Harry Wakefield had dealt or was in the act of dealing. “Thou art in good luck, my canny Scot,” said Mr. Ireby, “to have spoken to me, for I see thy cattle have done their day’s work, and I have at my disposal the only field within three miles that is to be let in these parts.” “The drove can pe gang two, three, four miles very pratty weel in-

190 Sir Walter Scott deed,” said the cautious Highlander; “put what would his honour be axing for the peasts pe the head, if she was to tak the park for twa or three days?” “We won’t differ, Sawney, if you let me have six stots for winterers, in the way of reason.” “And which peasts wad your honour pe for having?” “Why—let me see—the two black—the dun one—yon doddy—him with the twisted horn—the brocket. How much by the head?” “Ah,” said Robin, “your honour is a shudge—a real shudge—I couldna have set off the pest six peasts petter mysell, me that ken them as if they were my pairns, puir things.” “Well, how much per head, Sawney?” continued Mr. Ireby. “It was high markets at Doune and Falkirk,” answered Robin. And thus the conversation proceeded, until they had agreed on the prix juste for the bullocks, the squire throwing in the temporary accommodation of the enclosure for the cattle into the boot, and Robin making, as he thought, a very good bargain, provided the grass was but tolerable. The squire walked his pony alongside of the drove, partly to show him the way, and see him put into possession of the field, and partly to learn the latest news of the northern markets. They arrived at the field, and the pasture seemed excellent. But what was their surprise when they saw the bailiff quietly inducting the cattle of Harry Wakefield into the grassy Goshen which had just been assigned to those of Robin Oig M‘Combich by the proprietor himself! Squire Ireby set spurs to his horse, dashed up to his servant, and learning what had passed between the parties, briefly informed the English drover that his bailiff had let the ground without his authority, and that he might seek grass for his cattle wherever he would, since he was to get none there. At the same time he rebuked his servant severely for having transgressed his commands, and ordered him instantly to assist in ejecting the hungry and weary cattle of Harry Wakefield, which were just beginning to enjoy a meal of unusual plenty, and to introduce those of his comrade, whom the English drover now began to consider as a rival. The feelings which arose in Wakefield’s mind would have induced him to resist Mr. Ireby’s decision; but every Englishman has a tolerably accurate sense of law and justice, and John Fleecebumpkin, the bailiff, having acknowledged that he had exceeded his commission, Wakefield saw nothing else for it than to collect his hungry and disap- pointed charge, and drive them on to seek quarters elsewhere. Robin

191TH E TWO D ROVE RS Oig saw what had happened with regret, and hastened to offer to his English friend to share with him the disputed possession. But Wakefield’s pride was severely hurt, and he answered disdainfully, “Take it all, man— take it all—never make two bites of a cherry—thou canst talk over the gentry, and blear a plain man’s eye. Out upon you, man—I would not kiss any man’s dirty latchets for leave to bake in his oven.” Robin Oig, sorry but not surprised at his comrade’s displeasure, hastened to entreat his friend to wait but an hour till he had gone to the squire’s house to receive payment for the cattle he had sold, and he would come back and help him to drive the cattle into some convenient place of rest, and explain to him the whole mistake they had both of them fallen into. But the Englishman continued indignant: “Thou hast been selling, hast thou? Aye, aye, thou is a cunning lad for kenning the hours of bargaining. Go to the devil with thyself, for I will ne’er see thy fause loon’s visage again—thou should be ashamed to look me in the face.” “I am ashamed to look no man in the face,” said Robin Oig, something moved; “and, moreover, I will look you in the face this blessed day, if you will bide at the clachan down yonder.” “Mayhap you had as well keep away,” said his comrade; and turning his back on his former friend, he collected his unwilling associates, assisted by the bailiff, who took some real and some affected interest in seeing Wakefield accommodated. After spending some time in negotiating with more than one of the neighbouring farmers, who could not, or would not, afford the accommodation desired, Harry Wakefield at last, and in his necessity, accomplished his point by means of the landlord of the alehouse at which Robin Oig and he had agreed to pass the night, when they first separated from each other. Mine host was content to let him turn his cattle on a piece of barren moor at a price little less than the bailiff had asked for the disputed enclosure; and the wretchedness of the pasture, as well as the price paid for it, were set down as exaggerations of the breach of faith and friendship of his Scottish crony. This turn of Wakefield’s passions was encouraged by the bailiff (who had his own reasons for being offended against poor Robin, as having been the unwitting cause of his falling into disgrace with his master), as well as by the innkeeper, and two or three chance guests, who stimulated the drover in his resentment against his quondam associate—some from the ancient grudge against the Scots which, when it exists anywhere, is to be found lurking in the border counties, and some

192 Sir Walter Scott from the general love of mischief, which characterizes mankind in all ranks of life, to the honour of Adam’s children be it spoken. Good John Barleycorn also, who always heightens and exaggerates the prevailing passions, be they angry or kindly, was not wanting in his offices on this occasion; and confusion to false friends and hard masters was pledged in more than one tankard. In the meanwhile Mr. Ireby found some amusement in detaining the northern drover at his ancient hall. He caused a cold round of beef to be placed before the Scot in the butler’s pantry, together with a foaming tankard of home-brewed, and took pleasure in seeing the hearty appetite with which these unwonted edibles were discussed by Robin Oig M‘Combich. The squire himself, lighting his pipe, compounded between his patrician dignity and his love of agricultural gossip by walking up and down while he conversed with his guest. “I passed another drove,” said the squire, “with one of your countrymen behind them—they were something less beasts than your drove, doddies most of them—a big man was with them—none of your kilts though, but a decent pair of breeches. D’ye know who he may be?” “Hout aye—that might, could, and would be Hughie Morrison—I didna think he could hae peen sae weel up. He has made a day on us; but his Argyleshires will have wearied shanks. How far was he pehind?” “I think about six or seven miles,” answered the squire, “for I passed them at the Christenbury Crag, and I overtook you at the Hollan Bush. If his beasts be leg-weary, he will maybe be selling bargains.” “Na, na, Hughie Morrison is no the man for pargains—ye maun come to some Highland body like Robin Oig hersell for the like of these—put I maun pe wishing you goot night, and twenty of them let alane ane, and I maun down to the clachan to see if the lad Harry Waakfelt is out of his humdudgeons yet.” The party at the alehouse were still in full talk, and the treachery of Robin Oig still the theme of conversation, when the supposed culprit entered the apartment. His arrival, as usually happens in such a case, put an instant stop to the discussion of which he had furnished the subject, and he was received by the company assembled with that chilling silence which, more than a thousand exclamations, tells an intruder that he is unwelcome. Surprised and offended, but not appalled by the reception which he experienced, Robin entered with an undaunted and even a haughty air, attempted no greeting as he saw he was received with none, and placed himself by the side of the fire,

193TH E TWO D ROVE RS a little apart from a table at which Harry Wakefield, the bailiff, and two or three other persons were seated. The ample Cumbrian kitchen would have afforded plenty of room, even for a larger separation. Robin, thus seated, proceeded to light his pipe, and call for a pint of twopenny. “We have no twopence ale,” answered Ralph Heskett, the landlord; “but as thou findest thy own tobacco, it’s like thou mayest find thy own liquor too—it’s the wont of thy country, I wot.” “Shame, goodman,” said the landlady, a blithe bustling house-wife, hastening herself to supply the guest with liquor, “thou knowest well enow what the strange man wants, and it’s thy trade to be civil, man. Thou shouldst know that if the Scot likes a small pot, he pays a sure penny.” Without taking any notice of this nuptial dialogue, the Highlander took the flagon in his hand, and addressing the company generally, drank the interesting toast of “Good markets” to the party assembled. “The better that the wind blew fewer dealers from the north,” said one of the farmers, “and fewer Highland runts to eat up the English meadows.” “Saul of my pody, put you are wrang there, my friend,” answered Robin, with composure, “it is your fat Englishmen that eat up our Scots cattle, puir things.” “I wish there was a summat to eat up their drovers,” said another; “a plain Englishman canna make bread within a kenning of them.” “Or an honest servant keep his master’s favour, but they will come sliding in between him and the sunshine,” said the bailiff. “If these pe jokes,” said Robin Oig, with the same composure, “there is ower mony jokes upon one man.” “It is no joke, but downright earnest,” said the bailiff. “Harkye, Mr. Robin Ogg, or whatever is your name, it’s right we should tell you that we are all of one opinion, and that is that you, Mr. Robin Ogg, have behaved to our friend Mr. Harry Wakefield here, like a raff and a blackguard.” “Nae doubt, nae doubt,” answered Robin, with great composure; “and you are a set of very pretty judges, for whose prains or pehaviour I wad not gie a pinch of sneeshing. If Mr. Harry Waakfelt kens where he is wranged, he kens where he may be righted.” “He speaks truth,” said Wakefield, who had listened to what passed, divided between the offence which he had taken at Robin’s late behaviour, and the revival of his habitual feelings of regard.

194 Sir Walter Scott He now arose, and went towards Robin, who got up from his seat as he approached, and held out his hand. “That’s right, Harry—go it—serve him out,” resounded on all sides, “tip him the nailer—show him the mill.” “Hold your peace all of you, and be—,” said Wakefield; and then addressing his comrade, he took him by the extended hand, with something alike of respect and defiance. “Robin,” he said, “thou hast used me ill enough this day; but if you mean, like a frank fellow, to shake hands, and make a tussle for love on the sod, why I’ll forgie thee, man, and we shall be better friends than ever.” “And would it not pe petter to pe cood friends without more of the matter?” said Robin; “we will be much petter friendships with our panes hale than proken.” Harry Wakefield dropped the hand of his friend, or rather threw it from him. “I did not think I had been keeping company for three years with a coward.” “Coward pelongs to none of my name,” said Robin, whose eyes began to kindle, but keeping the command of his temper. “It was no coward’s legs or hands, Harry Waakfelt, that drew you out of the fords of Frew when you was drifting ower the plack rock, and every eel in the river expected his share of you.” “And that is true enough, too,” said the Englishman, struck by the appeal. “Adzooks!” exclaimed the bailiff, “sure Harry Wakefield, the nattiest lad at Whitson Tryste, Wooler Fair, Carlisle Sands, or Stagshaw Bank, is not going to show white feather? Ah, this comes of living so long with kilts and bonnets—men forget the use of their daddles.” “I may teach you, Master Fleecebumpkin, that I have not lost the use of mine,” said Wakefield, and then went on. “This will never do, Robin. We must have a turn-up, or we shall be the talk of the countryside. I’ll be d—d if I hurt thee—I’ll put on the gloves gin thou like. Come, stand forward like a man.” “To pe peaten like a dog,” said Robin; “is there any reason in that? If you think I have done you wrong, I’ll go before your shudge, though I neither know his law nor his language.” A general cry of “No, no—no law, no lawyer! a bellyful and be friends,” was echoed by the bystanders. “But,” continued Robin, “if I am to fight, I’ve no skill to fight like a jackanapes, with hands and nails.”

195TH E TWO D ROVE RS “How would you fight, then?” said his antagonist; “though I am thinking it would be hard to bring you to the scratch anyhow.” “I would fight with proadswords, and sink point on the first plood drawn, like a gentlemans.” A loud shout of laughter followed the proposal, which indeed had rather escaped from poor Robin’s swelling heart than been the dictate of his sober judgement. “Gentleman, quotha!” was echoed on all sides, with a shout of unextinguishable laughter; “a very pretty gentleman, God wot. Canst get two swords for the gentlemen to fight with, Ralph Heskett?” “No, but I can send to the armoury at Carlisle and lend them two forks to be making shift with in the meantime.” “Tush, man,” said another, “the bonny Scots come into the world with the blue bonnet on their heads, and dirk and pistol at their belt.” “Best send post,” said Mr. Fleecebumpkin, “to the squire of Corby Castle, to come and stand second to the gentleman.” In the midst of this torrent of general ridicule, the Highlander instinctively griped beneath the folds of his plaid. “But it’s better not,” he said in his own language. “A hundred curses on the swine-eaters, who know neither decency nor civility!” “Make room, the pack of you,” he said, advancing to the door. But his former friend interposed his sturdy bulk, and opposed his leaving the house; and when Robin Oig attempted to make his way by force, he hit him down on the floor with as much ease as a boy bowls down a ninepin. “A ring, a ring!” was now shouted, until the dark rafters, and the hams that hung on them, trembled again, and the very platters on the bink clattered against each other. “Well done, Harry,” “give it him home, Harry,” “take care of him now—he sees his own blood!” Such were the exclamations, while the Highlander, starting from the ground, all his coldness and caution lost in frantic rage, sprang at his antagonist with the fury, the activity, and the vindictive purpose of an incensed tiger-cat. But when could rage encounter science and temper? Robin Oig again went down in the unequal contest; and as the blow was necessarily a severe one, he lay motionless on the floor of the kitchen. The landlady ran to offer some aid, but Mr. Fleecebumpkin would not permit her to approach. “Let him alone,” he said, “he will come to within time, and come up to the scratch again. He has not got half his broth yet.” “He has got all I mean to give him, though,” said his antagonist, whose

196 Sir Walter Scott heart began to relent towards his old associate; “and I would rather by half give the rest to yourself, Mr. Fleecebumpkin, for you pretend to know a thing or two, and Robin had not art enough even to peel before setting to, but fought with his plaid dangling about him. Stand up, Robin, my man! all friends now; and let me hear the man that will speak a word against you, or your country, for your sake.” Robin Oig was still under the dominion of his passion, and eager to renew the onset; but being withheld on the one side by the peacemaking Dame Heskett, and on the other, aware that Wakefield no longer meant to renew the combat, his fury sank into gloomy sullenness. “Come, come, never grudge so much at it, man,” said the brave-spirited Englishman, with the placability of his country, “shake hands, and we will be better friends than ever.” “Friends!” exclaimed Robin Oig, with strong emphasis, “friends!— Never. Look to yourself, Harry Waakfelt.” “Then the curse of Cromwell on your proud Scots stomach, as the man says in the play, and you may do your worst, and be d—d; for one man can say nothing more to another after a tussle than that he is sorry for it.” On these terms the friends parted; Robin Oig drew out, in silence, a piece of money, threw it on the table, and then left the alehouse. But turning at the door, he shook his hand at Wakefield, pointing with his forefinger upwards, in a manner which might imply either a threat or a caution. He then disappeared in the moonlight. Some words passed after his departure between the bailiff, who piqued himself on being a little of a bully, and Harry Wakefield, who, with generous inconsistency, was now not indisposed to begin a new combat in defence of Robin Oig’s reputation, “although he could not use his daddles like an Englishman, as it did not come natural to him.” But Dame Heskett prevented this second quarrel from coming to a head by her peremptory interference. There should be no more fighting in her house, she said; there had been too much already. “And you, Mr. Wakefield, may live to learn,” she added, “what it is to make a deadly enemy out of a good friend.” “Pshaw, dame! Robin Oig is an honest fellow, and will never keep malice.” “Do not trust to that—you do not know the dour temper of the Scots, though you have dealt with them so often. I have a right to know them, my mother being a Scot.” “And so is well seen on her daughter,” said Ralph Heskett.

197TH E TWO D ROVE RS This nuptial sarcasm gave the discourse another turn; fresh customers entered the tap-room or kitchen, and others left it. The conversation turned on the expected markets, and the report of prices from different parts both of Scotland and England—treaties were commenced, and Harry Wakefield was lucky enough to find a chap for a part of his drove, and at a very considerable profit; an event of consequence more than sufficient to blot out all remembrances of the unpleasant scuffle in the earlier part of the day. But there remained one party from whose mind that recollection could not have been wiped away by the possession of every head of cattle betwixt Esk and Eden. This was Robin Oig M‘Combich. “That I should have had no weapon,” he said “and for the first time in my life! Blighted be the tongue that bids the Highlander part with the dirk—the dirk—ha! the English blood! My Muhme’s word—when did her word fall to the ground?” The recollection of the fatal prophecy confirmed the deadly intention which instantly sprang up in his mind. “Ha! Morrison cannot be many miles behind; and if it were a hundred, what then?” His impetuous spirit had now a fixed purpose and motive of action, and he turned the light foot of his country towards the wilds, through which he knew, by Mr. Ireby’s report, that Morrison was advancing. His mind was wholly engrossed by the sense of injury—injury sustained from a friend; and by the desire of vengeance on one whom he now accounted his most bitter enemy. The treasured ideas of self- importance and self-opinion—of ideal birth and quality—had become more precious to him, like the hoard to the miser, because he could only enjoy them in secret. But that hoard was pillaged, the idols which he had secretly worshipped had been desecrated and profaned. Insulted, abused, and beaten, he was no longer worthy, in his own opinion, of the name he bore or the lineage which he belonged to— nothing was left to him—nothing but revenge; and, as the reflection added a galling spur to every step, he determined it should be as sudden and signal as the offence. When Robin Oig left the door of the ale-house, seven or eight English miles at least lay betwixt Morrison and him. The advance of the former was slow, limited by the sluggish pace of his cattle; the last left behind him stubble-field and hedgerow, crag and dark heath, all glittering with frost-rime in the broad November moonlight, at the rate of six miles an hour. And now the distant lowing of Morrison’s cattle is heard; and now they are seen creeping like moles in size and slowness of motion on

198 Sir Walter Scott the broad face of the moor; and now he meets them, passes them, and stops their conductor. “May good betide us,” said the Southlander. “Is this you, Robin M‘Combich, or your wraith?” “It is Robin Oig M‘Combich,” answered the Highlander, “and it is not. But never mind that, put pe giving me the skene-dhu.” “What! you are for back to the Highlands—The devil! Have you selt all off before the fair? This beats all for quick markets!” “I have not sold—I am not going north—may pe I will never go north again. Give me pack my dirk, Hugh Morrison, or there will pe words petween us.” “Indeed, Robin, I’ll be better advised before I gie it back to you—it is a wanchancy weapon in a Highlandman’s hand, and I am thinking you will be about some barns-breaking.” “Prutt, trutt! let me have my weapon,” said Robin Oig, impatiently. “Hooly, and fairly,” said his well-meaning friend. “I’ll tell you what will do better than these dirking doings. Ye ken Highlander, and Low- lander, and Border-men are a’ ae man’s bairns when you are over the Scots dyke. See, the Eskdale callants, and fighting Charlie of Liddesdale, and the Lockerby lads, and the four Dandies of Lustruther, and a wheen mair grey plaids are coming up behind, and if you are wranged, there is the hand of a Manly Morrison; we’ll see you righted, if Carlisle and Stanwix baith took up the feud.” “To tell you the truth,” said Robin Oig, desirous of eluding the suspicions of his friend, “I have enlisted with a party of the Black Watch, and must march off to-morrow morning.” “Enlisted! Were you mad or drunk? You must buy yourself off—I can lend you twenty notes, and twenty to that, if the drove sell.” “I thank you—thank ye, Hughie; but I go with good will the gate that I am going—so the dirk—the dirk!” “There it is for you then, since less wunna serve. But think on what I was saying. Waes me, it will be sair news in the braes of Balquidder that Robin Oig M‘Combich should have run an ill gate, and ta’en on.” “Ill news in Balquidder, indeed!” echoed poor Robin. “But Cot speed you, Hughie, and send you good marcats. Ye winna meet with Robin Oig again, either at tryste or fair.” So saying, he shook hastily the hand of his acquaintance, and set out in the direction from which he had advanced, with the spirit of his former pace. “There is something wrang with the lad,” muttered the Morrison to him-

199TH E TWO D ROVE RS self, “but we’ll maybe see better into it the morn’s morning.” But long ere the morning dawned, the catastrophe of our tale had taken place. It was two hours after the affray had happened, and it was totally forgotten by almost every one, when Robin Oig returned to Heskett’s inn. The place was filled at once by various sorts of men, and with noises corresponding to their character. There were the grave low sounds of men engaged in busy traffic, with the laugh, the song, and the riotous jest of those who had nothing to do but to enjoy themselves. Among the last was Harry Wakefield, who, amidst a grinning group of smock-frocks, hobnailed shoes, and jolly English physiognomies, was trolling forth the old ditty, What though my name be Roger, Who drives the plough and cart— when he was interrupted by a well-known voice saying in a high and stern tone, marked by the sharp Highland accent, “Harry Waakfelt—if you be a man, stand up!” “What is the matter? What is it?” the guests demanded of each other. “It is only a d——d Scotsman,” said Fleecebumpkin, who was by this time very drunk, “whom Harry Wakefield helped to his broth the day, who is now come to have his cauld kail het again.” “Harry Waakfelt,” repeated the same ominous summons, “stand up, if you be a man!” There is something in the tone of deep and concentrated passion which attracts attention and imposes awe, even by the very sound. The guests shrank back on every side, and gazed at the Highlander as he stood in the middle of them, his brows bent, and his features rigid with resolution. “I will stand up with all my heart, Robin, my boy, but it shall be to shake hands with you, and drink down all unkindness. It is not the fault of your heart, man, that you don’t know how to clench your hands.” But this time he stood opposite to his antagonist; his open and unsuspecting look strangely contrasted with the stern purpose, which gleamed wild, dark, and vindictive in the eyes of the Highlander. “’Tis not thy fault, man, that, not having the luck to be an Englishman, thou canst not fight more than a schoolgirl.” “I can fight,” answered Robin Oig sternly, but calmly, “and you shall know it. You, Harry Waakfelt, showed me to-day how the Saxon churls fight—I show you now how the Highland Dunniè-wassel fights.” He seconded the word with the action, and plunged the dagger, which

200 Sir Walter Scott he suddenly displayed, into the broad breast of the English yeoman with such fatal certainty and force that the hilt made a hollow sound against the breastbone, and the double-edged point split the very heart of his victim. Harry Wakefield fell and expired with a single groan. His assassin next seized the bailiff by the collar, and offered the bloody poniard to his throat, whilst dread and surprise rendered the man incapable of defence. “It were very just to lay you beside him,” he said, “but the blood of a base pickthank shall never mix on my father’s dirk with that of a brave man.” As he spoke, he cast the man from him with so much force that he fell on the floor, while Robin, with his other hand, threw the fatal weapon into the blazing turf-fire. “There,” he said, “take me who likes—and let fire cleanse blood if it can.” The pause of astonishment still continuing, Robin Oig asked for a peace-officer, and a constable having stepped out, he surrendered himself to his custody. “A bloody night’s work you have made of it,” said the constable. “Your own fault,” said the Highlander. “Had you kept his hands off me twa hours since, he would have been now as well and merry as he was twa minutes since.” “It must be sorely answered,” said the peace-officer. “Never you mind that—death pays all debts; it will pay that too.” The horror of the bystanders began now to give way to indignation; and the sight of a favourite companion murdered in the midst of them, the provocation being, in their opinion, so utterly inadequate to the excess of vengeance, might have induced them to kill the perpetrator of the deed even upon the very spot. The constable, however, did his duty on this occasion, and with the assistance of some of the more reasonable persons present, procured horses to guard the prisoner to Carlisle, to abide his doom at the next assizes. While the escort was preparing, the prisoner neither expressed the least interest nor attempted the slightest reply. Only, before he was carried from the fatal apartment, he desired to look at the dead body, which, raised from the floor, had been deposited upon the large table (at the head of which Harry Wakefield had presided but a few minutes before, full of life, vigour, and animation) until the surgeons should examine the mortal wound. The face of the corpse was decently covered with a napkin. To the surprise and horror of the bystanders, which displayed itself in a general Ah! drawn through

201TH E TWO D ROVE RS clenched teeth and half-shut lips, Robin Oig removed the cloth, and gazed with a mournful but steady eye on the lifeless visage, which had been so lately animated that the smile of good-humoured confidence in his own strength, of conciliation at once and contempt towards his enemy still curled his lip. While those present expected that the wound, which had so lately flooded the apartment with gore, would send forth fresh streams at the touch of the homicide, Robin Oig replaced the covering, with the brief exclamation, “He was a pretty man!” My story is nearly ended. The unfortunate Highlander stood his trial at Carlisle. I was myself present, and as a young Scottish lawyer, or barrister at least, and reputed a man of some quality, the politeness of the Sheriff of Cumberland offered me a place on the bench. The facts of the case were proved in the manner I have related them; and whatever might be at first the prejudice of the audience against a crime so un- English as that of assassination from revenge, yet when the rooted national prejudices of the prisoner had been explained, which made him consider himself as stained with indelible dishonour when subjected to personal violence; when his previous patience, moderation, and endurance were considered, the generosity of the English audience was inclined to regard his crime as the wayward aberration of a false idea of honour rather than as flowing from a heart naturally savage, or perverted by habitual vice. I shall never forget the charge of the venerable judge to the jury, although not at that time liable to be much affected either by that which was eloquent or pathetic. “We have had,” he said, “in the previous part of our duty” (alluding to some former trials) “to discuss crimes which infer disgust and abhorrence, while they call down the well-merited vengeance of the law. It is now our still more melancholy task to apply its salutary though severe enactments to a case of a very singular character, in which the crime (for a crime it is, and a deep one) arose less out of the malevolence of the heart than the error of the understanding—less from any idea of committing wrong than from an unhappily perverted notion of that which is right. Here we have two men, highly esteemed, it has been stated, in their rank of life, and attached, it seems, to each other as friends, one of whose lives has been already sacrificed to a punctilio, and the other is about to prove the vengeance of the offended laws; and yet both may claim our commiseration at least, as men acting in ignorance of each other’s national prejudices, and unhappily misguided rather than voluntarily erring from the path of right conduct. “In the original cause of the misunderstanding, we must in justice give

202 Sir Walter Scott the right to the prisoner at the bar. He had acquired possession of the enclosure, which was the object of competition, by a legal contract with the proprietor, Mr. Ireby; and yet, when accosted with reproaches undeserved in themselves, and galling doubtless to a temper at least sufficiently susceptible of passion, he offered notwithstanding to yield up half his acquisition for the sake of peace and good neighbourhood, and his amicable proposal was rejected with scorn. Then follows the scene at Mr. Heskett the publican’s, and you will observe how the stranger was treated by the deceased, and, I am sorry to observe, by those around, who seem to have urged him in a manner which was aggravating in the highest degree. While he asked for peace and for composition, and offered submission to a magistrate, or to a mutual arbiter, the prisoner was insulted by a whole company, who seem on this occasion to have forgotten the national maxim of ‘fair play’; and while attempting to escape from the place in peace, he was intercepted, struck down, and beaten to the effusion of his blood. “Gentlemen of the jury, it was with some impatience that I heard my learned brother, who opened the case for the crown, give an unfavourable turn to the prisoner’s conduct on this occasion. He said the prisoner was afraid to encounter his antagonist in fair fight, or to submit to the laws of the ring; and that therefore, like a cowardly Italian, he had recourse to his fatal stiletto, to murder the man whom he dared not meet in manly encounter. I observed the prisoner shrink from this part of the accusation with the abhorrence natural to a brave man; and as I would wish to make my words impressive when I point his real crime, I must secure his opinion of my impartiality, by rebutting everything that seems to me a false accusation. There can be no doubt that the prisoner is a man of resolution—too much resolution—I wish to Heaven that he had less, or rather that he had had a better education to regulate it. “Gentlemen, as to the laws my brother talks of, they may be known in the bull-ring, or the bear-garden, or the cockpit, but they are not known here. Or, if they should be so far admitted as furnishing a species of proof that no malice was intended in this sort of combat, from which fatal accidents do sometimes arise, it can only be so admitted when both parties are in pari causa, equally acquainted with, and equally willing to refer themselves to, that species of arbitrament. But will it be contended that a man of superior rank and education is to be subjected, or is obliged to subject himself, to this coarse and brutal strife, perhaps in opposition to a younger, stronger, or more skilful opponent? Certainly even the pugilistic code, if founded upon the fair play of Merry Old England,

203TH E TWO D ROVE RS as my brother alleges it to be, can contain nothing so preposterous. And, gentlemen of the jury, if the laws would support an English gentleman, wearing, we will suppose, his sword, in defending himself by force against a violent personal aggression of the nature offered to this prisoner, they will not less protect a foreigner and a stranger involved in the same unpleasing circumstances. If, therefore, gentlemen of the jury, when thus pressed by a vis major, the object of obloquy to a whole company, and of direct violence from one at least, and, as he might reasonably apprehend, from more, the panel had produced the weapon which his countrymen, as we are informed, generally carry about their persons, and the same unhappy circumstance had ensued which you have heard detailed in evidence, I could not in my conscience have asked from you a verdict of murder. The prisoner’s personal defence might, indeed, even in that case, have gone more or less beyond the Moderamen inculpatae tutelae [degree of force allowable in self-defence], spoken of by lawyers, but the punishment incurred would have been that of manslaughter, not of murder. I beg leave to add that I should have thought this milder species of charge was demanded in the case supposed, notwithstanding the statute of James I cap. 8, which takes the case of slaughter by stabbing with a short weapon, even without malice prepense, out of the benefit of clergy. For this statute of stabbing, as it is termed, arose out of a temporary cause; and as the real guilt is the same, whether the slaughter be committed by the dagger, or by sword or pistol, the benignity of the modern law places them all on the same or nearly the same footing. “But, gentlemen of the jury, the pinch of the case lies in the interval of two hours interposed betwixt the reception of the injury and the fatal retaliation. In the heat of affray and chaude mêlée, law, compassionating the infirmities of humanity, makes allowance for the passions which rule such a stormy moment—for the sense of present pain, for the apprehension of further injury, for the difficulty of ascertaining with due accuracy the precise degree of violence which is necessary to protect the person of the individual, without annoying or injuring the assailant more than is absolutely requisite. But the time necessary to walk twelve miles, however speedily performed, was an interval sufficient for the prisoner to have recollected himself; and the violence with which he carried his purpose into effect, with so many circumstances of deliberate determination, could neither be induced by the passion of anger, nor that of fear. It was the purpose and the act of predetermined revenge, for which law neither can, will, nor ought to have sympathy or allowance.

204 Sir Walter Scott “It is true, we may repeat to ourselves, in alleviation of this poor man’s unhappy action, that his case is a very peculiar one. The country which he inhabits was, in the days of many now alive, inaccessible to the laws, not only of England, which have not even yet penetrated thither, but to those to which our neighbours of Scotland are subjected, and which must be supposed to be, and no doubt actually are, founded upon the general principles of justice and equity which pervade every civilized country. Amongst their mountains, as among the North American Indians, the various tribes were wont to make war upon each other, so that each man was obliged to go armed for his protection. These men, from the ideas which they entertained of their own descent and of their own consequence, regarded themselves as so many cavaliers or men-at- arms, rather than as the peasantry of a peaceful country. Those laws of the ring, as my brother terms them, were unknown to the race of warlike mountaineers; that decision of quarrels by no other weapons than those which nature has given every man must to them have seemed as vulgar and as preposterous as to the noblesse of France. Revenge, on the other hand, must have been as familiar to their habits of society as to those of the Cherokees or Mohawks. It is indeed, as described by Bacon, at bottom a kind of wild untutored justice; for the fear of retaliation must withhold the hands of the oppressor where there is no regular law to check daring violence. But though all this may be granted, and though we may allow that, such having been the case of the Highlands in the days of the prisoner’s fathers, many of the opinions and sentiments must still continue to influence the present generation, it cannot, and ought not, even in this most painful case, to alter the administration of the law, either in your hands, gentlemen of the jury, or in mine. The first object of civilization is to place the general protection of the law, equally administered, in the room of that wild justice, which every man cut and carved for himself, according to the length of his sword and the strength of his arm. The law says to the subjects, with a voice only inferior to that of the Deity, ‘Vengeance is mine.’ The instant that there is time for passion to cool, and reason to interpose, an injured party must become aware that the law assumes the exclusive cognizance of the right and wrong betwixt the parties, and opposes her inviolable buckler to every attempt of the private party to right himself. I repeat that this unhappy man ought personally to be the object rather of our pity than our abhorrence, for he failed in his ignorance, and from mistaken notions of honour. But his crime is not the less that of murder, gentlemen, and, in your high and im- portant office, it is your duty so to find. Englishmen have their angry pas-

205TH E TWO D ROVE RS sions as well as Scots; and should this man’s action remain unpunished, you may unsheath, under various pretences, a thousand daggers betwixt the Land’s End and the Orkneys.” The venerable judge thus ended what, to judge by his apparent emotion, and by the tears which filled his eyes, was really a painful task. The jury, according to his instructions, brought in a verdict of guilty; and Robin Oig M‘Combich, alias M‘Gregor, was sentenced to death and left for execution, which took place accordingly. He met his fate with great firmness, and acknowledged the justice of his sentence. But he repelled indignantly the observations of those who accused him of attacking an unarmed man. “I give a life for the life I took,” he said, “and what can I do more?”

206 Joseph Conrad 1857–1924 Joseph Conrad (Józef Teodor Konrad Nalecz Korzeniowski in full)was born into a Polish landed family at Berdichev in the Polish Ukraine, December 3, 1857. For a time his parents were exiled to Siberia. By 1869 both were dead. Young Conrad, cared for by a warm-hearted uncle, was tutored and schooled in Cracow. He resolved to go to sea. In 1874, aged seventeen, he arrived in Marseilles. Cruises with the port pilots and three voyages to the West Indies gave him his introduction to salt water. He seems to have had a love affair with the mysterious “Doña Rita,” supporter of the Carlist rebellion in Spain and the model for his heroine in The Arrow of Gold. In 1877–78 he was involved in smuggling adventures that ended in the loss of vessel and funds. He borrowed money, lost that too at Monte Carlo, and evidently tried to kill himself. He recovered and shipped out in the steamer Mavis for Constantinople. He had decided to make a career in the British merchant service. In 1881 he signed on as second mate in the bark Palestine, bound for Bangkok. This voyage gave him the source for Youth (see below). He became a naturalized British citizen and received his master’s certificate in 1886. For a year or more he traded among the inlets and coastal rivers of Borneo, Celebes, and Sumatra. Notes from the artist: “A motif of the seven seas was the natural atmosphere for Conrad’s portrait, with the obvious symbols of a sextant, the returning sailor, the ship’s figurehead, sea monsters . . . The quotation is an inscription handwritten by Conrad in a copy of The Nigger of the ‘Narcissus’”

208 Joseph Conrad Conrad’s first command was the bark Otago. Back in London, he began to write his first book, Almayer’s Folly, in 1889. A voyage in a Congo river steamer was later put to use in Heart of Darkness. He left the sea in 1894. During the next year Almayer’s Folly was published and he completed An Outcast of the Islands. In 1896 he married Jessie George. They settled in Essex. By 1900 he had written The Nigger of the “Narcissus,” Tales of Unrest, and Lord Jim. In 1903 he finished Typhoon and began the first of three collaborations with Ford Madox Hueffer (later Ford Madox Ford). In 1903–04, he sat for twenty months at a stretch at Pent Farm in Kent, writing Nostromo. The novel Chance brought him his first large public. He and his family barely managed to get out of Poland at the start of World War I. In 1923 Conrad went to sea for the last time on a triumphal visit to New York. He died of a heart attack at Oswalds, Bishopsbourne, August 3, 1924. Youth was published in 1902. Read it once and it belongs to us, as if it had become a part of our own experience. We see again that old bark, the Judea, gliding alone in the “colossal sapphire” of the Indian Ocean. We smell the faint cloud and reek of her burning cargo, the coal smoke drifting off to leeward. And we know—have we not been told at the beginning?—that nothing can be done for her. She has no luck. Only the patient will of her crew has brought her so far into the Eastern seas. But nothing can save her. Conrad understood, better perhaps than any major writer before or after him, the role of the professional in human society. He spoke of him in terms of the professional seaman, because that was what he knew best. But the professional might have been one of Stephen Crane’s United States Regulars in Cuba, or an airline pilot, or a public-health physician, or the workman who mends the leak in the gas main. He is the man who holds things together and keeps them going. He knows his job and does it, no matter what happens. Let us see how this works out in the narrative of Youth. First, the story is told by Marlow, a veteran seaman, to four ex-seamen—a closed circle of professionals. It is a story of Marlow’s own youth, touched with amused and affectionate wonder at the young man he had been. Above all, it is a story of misfortunes piled on top of each other until, like the smoke of the burning Judea, they reach into the sky.

209Joseph Conrad But no one complains. The October gale, the collision in the dock, the endless work at the pumps and the endless waiting—these are all part of the job. Even when she catches fire at sea and blows her deck out, Captain Beard’s first thought is to get the yards trimmed and the ship back on course. Men with the hair burned off their heads stumble and haul among masts that threaten to go overside at any moment. It does not occur to them to question the wisdom of this procedure. That is what they are there for. Even when the steamer offers to take them off and Captain Beard shouts back, “We must see the last of the ship,” no one protests. But a professional is only the working part of a man. His feelings are his own. Marlow faithfully remembers the truth of his own feelings. He was pleased—pleased at the extent and thoroughness of the ship’s disaster, and how well he had stood up to it. He recalls his first view of the East, a vision, suddenly real, of the remote, the mysterious, the unknown. “I remember my youth,” he said, “and the feeling that will never come back any more—the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men. . . .”

210 Youth his could have occurred nowhere but in England, where men and sea interpenetrate, so to speak—the sea entering into the life of most men, and the men knowing something or everything about the sea, in the way of amusement, of travel, or of bread-winning. We were sitting round a mahogany table that reflected the bottle, the claret glasses, and our faces as we leaned on our elbows. There was a director of companies, an accountant, a lawyer, Marlow, and myself. The director had been a Conway boy, the accountant had served four years at sea, the lawyer—a fine-crusted Tory, High Churchman, the best of old fellows, the soul of honour—had been chief officer in the P. & O. service in the good old days when mail boats were square-rigged at least on two masts, and used to come down the China Sea before a fair monsoon with stun’-sails set alow and aloft. We all began life in the merchant service. Between the five of us there was the strong bond of the sea and also the fellowship of the craft, which no amount of enthusiasm for yachting, cruising, and so on can give, since one is only the amusement of life and the other is life itself. Marlow (at least I think that is how he spelled his name) told the story, or rather the chronicle, of a voyage: “Yes, I have seen a little of the Eastern seas; but what I remember best is my first voyage there. You fellows know there are those voyages that seem ordered for the illustration of life, that might stand for a symbol of existence. You fight, work, sweat, nearly kill yourself, sometimes do kill yourself, trying to accomplish something—and you can’t. Not from any fault of yours. You simply can do nothing, neither great nor little—not a thing in the world—not even marry an old maid, or get a wretched 600- ton cargo of coal to its port of destination. “It was altogether a memorable affair. It was my first voyage to the East, and my first voyage as second mate; it was also my skipper’s first command. You’ll admit it was time. He was sixty if a day; a little man,

211YOUTH with a broad, not very straight back, with bowed shoulders and one leg more bandy than the other, he had that queer twisted-about appearance you see so often in men who work in the fields. He had a nutcracker face—chin and nose trying to come together over a sunken mouth—and it was framed in iron-gray fluffy hair that looked like a chin-strap of cotton-wool sprinkled with coal-dust. And he had blue eyes in that old face of his which were amazingly like a boy’s, with that candid expression some quite common men preserve to the end of their days by a rare internal gift of simplicity of heart and rectitude of soul. What induced him to accept me was a wonder. I had come out of a crack Australian clipper, where I had been third officer, and he seemed to have a prejudice against crack clippers as aristocratic and high-toned. He said to me, ‘You know, in this ship you will have to work.’ I said I had to work in every ship I had ever been in. ‘Ah, but this is different, and you gentlemen out of them big ships; . . . but there! I dare say you will do. Join tomorrow.’ “I joined tomorrow. It was twenty-two years ago; and I was just twenty. How time passes! It was one of the happiest days of my life. Fancy! Second mate for the first time—a really responsible officer! I wouldn’t have thrown up my new billet for a fortune. The mate looked me over carefully. He was also an old chap, but of another stamp. He had a Roman nose, a snow-white, long beard, and his name was Mahon, but he insisted that it should be pronounced Mann. He was well connected; yet there was something wrong with his luck, and he had never got on. “As to the captain, he had been for years in coasters, then in the Medi- terranean, and last in the West Indian trade. He had never been round the Capes. He could just write a kind of sketchy hand, and didn’t care for writing at all. Both were thorough good seamen of course, and between those two old chaps I felt like a small boy between two grandfathers. “The ship also was old. Her name was the Judea. Queer name, isn’t it? She belonged to a man Wilmer, Wilcox—some name like that; but he has been bankrupt and dead these twenty years or more, and his name don’t matter. She had been laid up in Shadwell basin for ever so long. You can imagine her state. She was all rust, dust, grime—soot aloft, dirt on deck. To me it was like coming out of a palace into a ruined cottage. She was about 400 tons, had a primitive windlass, wooden latches on the doors, not a bit of brass about her, and a big square stern. There was on it, below her name in big letters, a lot of scroll-work, with the gilt off, and some sort of a coat of arms, with the motto ‘Do or Die’ underneath. I remember it took my fancy immensely. There was a touch of romance in it, something that made me love the old thing—something that appealed to my youth!

212 Joseph Conrad “We left London in ballast—sand ballast—to load a cargo of coal in a northern port for Bangkok. Bangkok! I thrilled. I had been six years at sea, but had only seen Melbourne and Sydney, very good places, charming places in their way—but Bangkok! “We worked out of the Thames under canvas, with a North Sea pilot on board. His name was Jermyn, and he dodged all day long about the galley drying his handkerchief before the stove. Apparently he never slept. He was a dismal man, with a perpetual tear sparkling at the end of his nose, who either had been in trouble, or was in trouble, or expected to be in trouble—couldn’t be happy unless something went wrong. He mistrusted my youth, my common sense, and my seamanship, and made a point of showing it in a hundred little ways. I dare say he was right. It seems to me I knew very little then, and I know not much more now; but I cherish a hate for that Jermyn to this day. “We were a week working up as far as Yarmouth Roads, and then we got into a gale—the famous October gale of twenty-two years ago. It was wind, lightning, sleet, snow, and a terrific sea. We were flying light, and you may imagine how bad it was when I tell you we had smashed bulwarks and a flooded deck. On the second night she shifted her ballast into the lee bow, and by that time we had been blown off somewhere on the Dogger Bank. There was nothing for it but go below with shovels and try to right her, and there we were in that vast hold, gloomy like a cavern, the tallow dips stuck and flickering on the beams, the gale howling above, the ship tossing about like mad on her side; there we all were, Jermyn, the captain, everyone, hardly able to keep our feet, engaged on that gravedigger’s work, and trying to toss shovelfuls of wet sand up to windward. At every tumble of the ship you could see vaguely in the dim light men falling down with a great flourish of shovels. One of the ship’s boys (we had two), impressed by the weirdness of the scene, wept as if his heart would break. We could hear him blubbering somewhere in the shadows. “On the third day the gale died out, and by-and-by a north-country tug picked us up. We took sixteen days in all to get from London to the Tyne! When we got into dock we had lost our turn for loading, and they hauled us off to a tier where we remained for a month. Mrs. Beard (the captain’s name was Beard) came from Colchester to see the old man. She lived on board. The crew of runners had left, and there remained only the officers, one boy, and the steward, a mulatto who answered to the name of Abraham. Mrs. Beard was an old woman, with a face all wrinkled and ruddy like a winter apple, and the figure of a young girl. She caught sight of me once, sewing on a button, and insisted on having my shirts to repair. This

213YOUTH was something different from the captains’ wives I had known on board crack clippers. When I brought her the shirts, she said: ‘And the socks? They want mending, I am sure, and John’s—Captain Beard’s—things are all in order now. I would be glad of something to do.’ Bless the old woman. She overhauled my outfit for me, and meantime I read for the first time Sartor Resartus and Burnaby’s Ride to Khiva. I didn’t understand much of the first then; but I remember I preferred the soldier to the philosopher at the time; a preference which life has only confirmed. One was a man, and the other was either more—or less. However, they are both dead, and Mrs. Beard is dead, and youth, strength, genius, thoughts, achievements, simple hearts—all die. . . . No matter. “They loaded us at last. We shipped a crew. Eight able seamen and two boys. We hauled off one evening to the buoys at the dock-gates, ready to go out, and with a fair prospect of beginning the voyage next day. Mrs. Beard was to start for home by a late train. When the ship was fast we went to tea. We sat rather silent through the meal—Mahon, the old couple, and I. I finished first, and slipped away for a smoke, my cabin being in a deck-house just against the poop. It was high water, blowing fresh with a drizzle; the double dock-gates were opened, and the steam colliers were going in and out in the darkness with their lights burning bright, a great plashing of propellers, rattling of winches, and a lot of hailing on the pier-heads. I watched the procession of head-lights gliding high and of green lights gliding low in the night, when suddenly a red gleam flashed at me, vanished, came into view again, and remained. The fore-end of a steamer loomed up close. I shouted down the cabin, ‘Come up, quick!’ and then heard a startled voice saying afar in the dark, ‘Stop her, sir.’ A bell jingled. Another voice cried warningly, ‘We are going right into that bark, sir.’ The answer to this was a gruff ‘All right,’ and the next thing was a heavy crash as the steamer struck a glancing blow with the bluff of her bow about our fore-rigging. There was a moment of confusion, yelling, and running about. Steam roared. Then somebody was heard saying, ‘All clear, sir.’ . . . ‘Are you all right?’ asked the gruff voice. I had jumped forward to see the damage, and hailed back, ‘I think so.’ ‘Easy astern,’ said the gruff voice. A bell jingled. ‘What steamer is that?’ screamed Mahon. By that time she was no more to us than a bulky shadow maneuvering a little way off. They shouted at us some name—a woman’s name, Miranda or Melissa—or some such thing. ‘This means another month in this beastly hole,’ said Mahon to me, as we peered with lamps about the splintered bulwarks and broken braces. ‘But where’s the captain?’

214 Joseph Conrad “We had not heard or seen anything of him all that time. We went aft to look. A doleful voice arose hailing somewhere in the middle of the dock, ‘Judea ahoy!’ . . . How the devil did he get there? . . . ‘Hallo!’ we shouted. ‘I am adrift in our boat without oars,’ he cried. A belated waterman offered his services, and Mahon struck a bargain with him for half-a-crown to tow our skipper alongside; but it was Mrs. Beard that came up the ladder first. They had been floating about the dock in that mizzly cold rain for nearly an hour. I was never so surprised in my life. “It appears that when he heard my shout ‘Come up,’ he understood at once what was the matter, caught up his wife, ran on deck, and across, and down into our boat, which was fast to the ladder. Not bad for a sixty-year-old. Just imagine that old fellow saving heroically in his arms that old woman—the woman of his life. He set her down on a thwart and was ready to climb back on board when the painter came adrift somehow, and away they went together. Of course in the confusion we did not hear him shouting. He looked abashed. She said cheerfully, ‘I suppose it does not matter my losing the train now?’ ‘No, Jenny—you go below and get warm,’ he growled. Then to us: ‘A sailor has no business with a wife—I say. There I was, out of the ship. Well, no harm done this time. Let’s go and look at what that fool of a steamer smashed.’ “It wasn’t much, but it delayed us three weeks. At the end of that time, the captain being engaged with his agents, I carried Mrs. Beard’s bag to the railway station and put her all comfy into a third-class carriage. She lowered the window to say, ‘You are a good young man. If you see John—Captain Beard—without his muffler at night, just remind him from me to keep his throat well wrapped up.’ ‘Certainly, Mrs. Beard,’ I said. ‘You are a good young man; I noticed how attentive you are to John—to Captain—’ The train pulled out suddenly; I took my cap off to the old woman: I never saw her again. . . . Pass the bottle. “We went to sea next day. When we made that start for Bangkok we had been already three months out of London. We had expected to be a fortnight or so—at the outside. “It was January, and the weather was beautiful—the beautiful sunny winter weather that has more charm than in the summertime, because it is unexpected, and crisp, and you know it won’t, it can’t, last long. It’s like a windfall, like a godsend, like an unexpected piece of luck. “It lasted all down the North Sea, all down Channel; and it lasted till we were three hundred miles or so to the westward of the Lizards: then the wind went round to the sou’west and began to pipe up. In two days it blew a gale. The Judea, hove to, wallowed on the Atlantic like an old

215YOUTH candlebox. It blew day after day: it blew with spite, without interval, without mercy, without rest. The world was nothing but an immensity of great foaming waves rushing at us, under a sky low enough to touch with the hand and dirty like a smoked ceiling. In the stormy space surrounding us there was as much flying spray as air. Day after day and night after night there was nothing round the ship but the howl of the wind, the tumult of the sea, the noise of water pouring over her deck. There was no rest for her and no rest for us. She tossed, she pitched, she stood on her head, she sat on her tail, she rolled, she groaned, and we had to hold on while on deck and cling to our bunks when below, in a constant effort of body and worry of mind. “One night Mahon spoke through the small window of my berth. It opened right into my very bed, and I was lying there sleepless, in my boots, feeling as though I had not slept for years, and could not if I tried. He said excitedly— “‘You got the sounding-rod in here, Marlow? I can’t get the pumps to suck. By God! it’s no child’s play.’ “I gave him the sounding-rod and lay down again, trying to think of various things—but I thought only of the pumps. When I came on deck they were still at it, and my watch relieved at the pumps. By the light of the lantern brought on deck to examine the sounding-rod I caught a glimpse of their weary, serious faces. We pumped all the four hours. We pumped all night, all day, all the week—watch and watch. She was working herself loose, and leaked badly—not enough to drown us at once, but enough to kill us with the work at the pumps. And while we pumped the ship was going from us piecemeal: the bulwarks went, the stanchions were torn out, the ventilators smashed, the cabin door burst in. There was not a dry spot in the ship. She was being gutted bit by bit. The long-boat changed, as if by magic, into matchwood where she stood in her gripes. I had lashed her myself, and was rather proud of my handiwork, which had withstood so long the malice of the sea. And we pumped. And there was no break in the weather. The sea was white like a sheet of foam, like a cauldron of boiling milk; there was not a break in the clouds, no—not the size of a man’s hand—no, not for so much as ten seconds. There was for us no sky, there were for us no stars, no sun, no universe—nothing but angry clouds and an infuriated sea. We pumped watch and watch, for dear life; and it seemed to last for months, for years, for all eternity, as though we had been dead and gone to a hell for sailors. We forgot the day of the week, the name of the month, what year it was, and whether we had ever been ashore. The sails blew away, she lay broadside

216 Joseph Conrad on under a weather-cloth, the ocean poured over her, and we did not care. We turned those handles, and had the eyes of idiots. As soon as we had crawled on deck I used to take a round turn with a rope about the men, the pumps, and the mainmast, and we turned, we turned incessantly, with the water to our waists, to our necks, over our heads. It was all one. We had forgotten how it felt to be dry. “And there was somewhere in me the thought: By Jove! this is the deuce of an adventure—something you read about; and it is my first voyage as second mate—and I am only twenty—and here I am lasting it out as well as any of these men, and keeping my chaps up to the mark. I was pleased. I would not have given up the experience for worlds. I had moments of exultation. Whenever the old dismantled craft pitched heavily with her counter high in the air, she seemed to me to throw up, like an appeal, like a defiance, like a cry to the clouds without mercy, the words written on her stern: ‘Judea, London, Do or Die.’ “O youth! The strength of it, the faith of it, the imagination of it! To me she was not an old rattletrap carting about the world a lot of coal for a freight—to me she was the endeavour, the test, the trial of life. I think of her with pleasure, with affection, with regret—as you would think of someone dead you have loved. I shall never forget her. . . . Pass the bottle. “One night when, tied to the mast, as I explained, we were pumping on, deafened with the wind, and without spirit enough in us to wish ourselves dead, a heavy sea crashed aboard and swept clean over us. As soon as I got my breath I shouted, as in duty bound, ‘Keep on, boys!’ when suddenly I felt something hard floating on deck strike the calf of my leg. I made a grab at it and missed. It was so dark we could not see each other’s faces within a foot—you understand. “After that thump the ship kept quiet for a while, and the thing, whatever it was, struck my leg again. This time I caught it—and it was a saucepan. At first, being stupid with fatigue and thinking of nothing but the pumps, I did not understand what I had in my hand. Suddenly it dawned upon me, and I shouted, ‘Boys, the house on deck is gone. Leave this, and let’s look for the cook.’ “There was a deck-house forward, which contained the galley, the cook’s berth, and the quarters of the crew. As we had expected for days to see it swept away, the hands had been ordered to sleep in the cabin— the only safe place in the ship. The steward, Abraham, however, persisted in clinging to his berth, stupidly, like a mule—from sheer fright I believe, like an animal that won’t leave a stable falling in an earthquake.

217YOUTH So we went to look for him. It was chancing death, since once out of our lashings we were as exposed as if on a raft. But we went. The house was shattered as if a shell had exploded inside. Most of it had gone overboard—stove, men’s quarters, and their property, all was gone; but two posts, holding a portion of the bulkhead to which Abraham’s bunk was attached, remained as if by a miracle. We groped in the ruins and came upon this, and there he was, sitting in his bunk, surrounded by foam and wreckage, jabbering cheerfully to himself. He was out of his mind; completely and forever mad, with this sudden shock coming upon the fag-end of his endurance. We snatched him up, lugged him aft, and pitched him head first down the cabin companion. You understand there was no time to carry him down with infinite precautions and wait to see how he got on. Those below would pick him up at the bottom of the stairs all right. We were in a hurry to go back to the pumps. That business could not wait. A bad leak is an inhuman thing. “One would think that the sole purpose of that fiendish gale had been to make a lunatic of that poor devil of a mulatto. It eased before morning, and next day the sky cleared, and as the sea went down the leak took up. When it came to bending a fresh set of sails the crew demanded to put back—and really there was nothing else to do. Boats gone, decks swept clean, cabin gutted, men without a stitch but what they stood in, stores spoiled, ship strained. We put her head for home, and—would you believe it? The wind came east right in our teeth. It blew fresh, it blew continuously. We had to beat up every inch of the way, but she did not leak so badly, the water keeping comparatively smooth. Two hours’ pumping in every four is no joke—but it kept her afloat as far as Falmouth. “The good people there live on casualties of the sea and no doubt were glad to see us. A hungry crowd of shipwrights sharpened their chisels at the sight of that carcass of a ship. And, by Jove! they had pretty pickings off us before they were done. I fancy the owner was already in a tight place. There were delays. Then it was decided to take part of the cargo out and caulk her topsides. This was done, the repairs finished, cargo reshipped; a new crew came on board, and we went out—for Bangkok. At the end of a week we were back again. The crew said they weren’t going to Bangkok—a hundred and fifty days’ passage—in a something hooker that wanted pumping eight hours out of the twentyfour; and the nautical papers inserted again the little paragraph: ‘Judea. Bark. Tyne to Bangkok; coals; put back to Falmouth leaky and with crew refusing duty.’

218 Joseph Conrad “There were more delays—more tinkering. The owner came down for a day, and said she was as right as a little fiddle. Poor old Captain Beard looked like the ghost of a Geordie skipper—through the worry and humiliation of it. Remember he was sixty, and it was his first command. Mahon said it was a foolish business, and would end badly. I loved the ship more than ever, and wanted awfully to get to Bangkok. To Bangkok! Magic name, blessed name. Mesopotamia wasn’t a patch on it. Remember I was twenty, and it was my first second mate’s billet, and the East was waiting for me. “We went out and anchored in the outer roads with a fresh crew—the third. She leaked worse than ever. It was as if those confounded shipwrights had actually made a hole in her. This time we did not even go outside. The crew simply refused to man the windlass. “They towed us back to the inner harbour, and we became a fixture, a feature, an institution of the place. People pointed us out to visitors as That ’ere bark that’s going to Bangkok—has been here six months—put back three times.’ On holidays the small boys pulling about in boats would hail, ‘Judea, ahoy!’ and if a head showed above the rail shouted, ‘Where you bound to?—Bangkok?’ and jeered. We were only three on board. The poor old skipper mooned in the cabin. Mahon undertook the cooking, and unexpectedly developed all a Frenchman’s genius for preparing nice little messes. I looked languidly after the rigging. We became citizens of Falmouth. Every shopkeeper knew us. At the barber’s or tobacconist’s they asked familiarly, ‘Do you think you will ever get to Bangkok?’ Meantime the owner, the underwriters, and the charterers squabbled amongst themselves in London, and our pay went on. . . . Pass the bottle. “It was horrid. Morally it was worse than pumping for life. It seemed as though we had been forgotten by the world, belonged to nobody, would get nowhere; it seemed that, as if bewitched, we would have to live for ever and ever in that inner harbor, a derision and a byword to generations of long-shore loafers and dishonest boatmen. I obtained three months’ pay and a five days’ leave, and made a rush for London. It took me a day to get there and pretty well another to come back—but three months’ pay went all the same. I don’t know what I did with it. I went to a music hall, I believe, lunched, dined, and supped in a swell place in Regent Street, and was back to time, with nothing but a complete set of Byron’s works and a new railway rug to show for three months’ work. The boatman who pulled me off to the ship said: ‘Hallo! I thought you had left the old thing. She will never get to Bangkok.’ ‘That’s all you know

219YOUTH about it,’ I said scornfully—but I didn’t like that prophecy at all. “Suddenly a man, some kind of agent to somebody, appeared with full powers. He had grog blossoms all over his face, an indomitable energy, and was a jolly soul. We leaped into life again. A hulk came alongside, took our cargo, and then we went into dry dock to get our copper stripped. No wonder she leaked. The poor thing, strained beyond endurance by the gale, had, as if in disgust, spat out all the oakum of her lower seams. She was recaulked, new coppered, and made as tight as a bottle. We went back to the hulk and reshipped our cargo. “Then on a fine moonlight night, all the rats left the ship. “We had been infested with them. They had destroyed our sails, consumed more stores than the crew, affably shared our beds and our dangers, and now, when the ship was made seaworthy, concluded to clear out. I called Mahon to enjoy the spectacle. Rat after rat appeared on our rail, took a last look over his shoulder, and leaped with a hollow thud into the empty hulk. We tried to count them, but soon lost the tale. Mahon said: ‘Well, well! don’t talk to me about the intelligence of rats. They ought to have left before, when we had that narrow squeak from foundering. There you have the proof how silly is the superstition about them. They leave a good ship for an old rotten hulk, where there is nothing to eat, too, the fools! . . . I don’t believe they know what is safe or what is good for them, any more than you or I.’ “And after some more talk we agreed that the wisdom of rats had been grossly overrated, being in fact no greater than that of men. “The story of the ship was known, by this, all up the Channel from Land’s End to the Forelands, and we could get no crew on the south coast. They sent us one all complete from Liverpool, and we left once more—for Bangkok. “We had fair breezes, smooth water right into the tropics, and the old Judea lumbered along in the sunshine. When she went eight knots everything cracked aloft, and we tied our caps to our heads; but mostly she strolled on at the rate of three miles an hour. What could you expect? She was tired—that old ship. Her youth was where mine is—where yours is—you fellows who listen to this yarn; and what friend would throw your years and your weariness in your face? We didn’t grumble at her. To us aft, at least, it seemed as though we had been born in her, reared in her, had lived in her for ages, had never known any other ship. I would just as soon have abused the old village church at home for not being a cathedral. “And for me there was also my youth to make me patient. There was

220 Joseph Conrad all the East before me, and all life, and the thought that I had been tried in that ship and had come out pretty well. And I thought of men of old who, centuries ago, went that road in ships that sailed no better, to the land of palms, and spices, and yellow sands, and of brown nations ruled by kings more cruel than Nero the Roman and more splendid than Solomon the Jew. The old bark lumbered on, heavy with her age and the burden of her cargo, while I lived the life of youth in ignorance and hope. She lumbered on through an interminable procession of days; and the fresh gilding flashed back at the setting sun, seemed to cry out over the darkening sea the words painted on her stern, ‘Judea, London, Do or Die.’ “Then we entered the Indian Ocean and steered northerly for Java Head. The winds were light. Weeks slipped by. She crawled on, do or die, and people at home began to think of posting us as overdue. “One Saturday evening, I being off duty, the men asked me to give them an extra bucket of water or so—for washing clothes. As I did not wish to screw on the fresh-water pump so late, I went forward whistling, and with a key in my hand to unlock the forepeak scuttle, intending to serve the water out of a spare tank we kept there. “The smell down below was as unexpected as it was frightful. One would have thought hundreds of paraffin lamps had been flaring and smoking in that hole for days. I was glad to get out. The man with me coughed and said, ‘Funny smell, sir.’ I answered negligently, ‘It’s good for the health, they say,’ and walked aft. “The first thing I did was to put my head down the square of the midship ventilator. As I lifted the lid a visible breath, something like a thin fog, a puff of faint haze, rose from the opening. The ascending air was hot, and had a heavy, sooty, paraffiny smell. I gave one sniff, and put down the lid gently. It was no use choking myself. The cargo was on fire. “Next day she began to smoke in earnest. You see it was to be expected, for though the coal was of a safe kind, that cargo had been so handled, so broken up with handling, that it looked more like smithy coal than anything else. Then it had been wetted—more than once. It rained all the time we were taking it back from the hulk, and now with this long passage it got heated, and there was another case of spontaneous combustion. “The captain called us into the cabin. He had a chart spread on the table, and looked unhappy. He said, ‘The coast of West Australia is near, but I mean to proceed to our destination. It is the hurricane month too;

221YOUTH but we will just keep her head for Bangkok, and fight the fire. No more putting back anywhere, if we all get roasted. We will try first to stifle this ’ere damned combustion by want of air.’ “We tried. We battened down everything, and still she smoked. The smoke kept coming out through imperceptible crevices; it forced itself through bulkheads and covers; it oozed here and there and everywhere in slender threads, in an invisible film, in an incomprehensible manner. It made its way into the cabin, into the forecastle; it poisoned the sheltered places on the deck; it could be sniffed as high as the main-yard. It was clear that if the smoke came out the air came in. This was disheartening. This combustion refused to be stifled. “We resolved to try water, and took the hatches off. Enormous volumes of smoke, whitish, yellowish, thick, greasy, misty, choking, ascended as high as the trucks. All hands cleared out aft. Then the poisonous cloud blew away, and we went back to work in a smoke that was no thicker now than that of an ordinary factory chimney. “We rigged the force-pump, got the hose along, and by-and-by it burst. Well, it was as old as the ship—a prehistoric hose, and past repair. Then we pumped with the feeble head-pump, drew water with buckets, and in this way managed in time to pour lots of Indian Ocean into the main- hatch. The bright stream flashed in sunshine, fell into a layer of white crawling smoke, and vanished on the black surface of coal. Steam ascended mingling with the smoke. We poured salt water as into a barrel without a bottom. It was our fate to pump in that ship, to pump out of her, to pump into her; and after keeping water out of her to save ourselves from being drowned, we frantically poured water into her to save ourselves from being burned. “And she crawled on, do or die, in the serene weather. The sky was a miracle of purity, a miracle of azure. The sea was polished, was blue, was pellucid, was sparkling like a precious stone, extending on all sides, all round to the horizon—as if the whole terrestrial globe had been one jewel, one colossal sapphire, a single gem fashioned into a planet. And on the lustre of the great calm waters the Judea glided imperceptibly, enveloped in languid and unclean vapours, in a lazy cloud that drifted to leeward, light and slow: a pestiferous cloud defiling the splendour of sea and sky. “All this time of course we saw no fire. The cargo smouldered at the bottom somewhere. Once Mahon, as we were working side by side, said to me with a queer smile: ‘Now, if she only would spring a tidy leak—

222 Joseph Conrad like that time when we first left the Channel—it would put a stopper on this fire. Wouldn’t it?’ I remarked irrelevantly, ‘Do you remember the rats?’ “We fought the fire and sailed the ship too as carefully as though nothing had been the matter. The steward cooked and attended on us. Of the other twelve men, eight worked while four rested. Everyone took his turn, captain included. There was equality, and if not exactly fraternity, then a deal of good feeling. Sometimes a man, as he dashed a bucketful of water down the hatchway, would yell out, ‘Hurrah for Bangkok!’ and the rest laughed. But generally we were taciturn and serious—and thirsty. Oh! how thirsty! And we had to be careful with the water. Strict allowance. The ship smoked, the sun blazed. . . . Pass the bottle. “We tried everything. We even made an attempt to dig down to the fire. No good, of course. No man could remain more than a minute below. Mahon, who went first, fainted there, and the man who went to fetch him out did likewise. We lugged them out on deck. Then I leaped down to show how easily it could be done. They had learned wisdom by that time, and contented themselves by fishing for me with a chain- hook tied to a broom handle, I believe. I did not offer to go and fetch up my shovel, which was left down below. “Things began to look bad. We put the long-boat into the water. The second boat was ready to swing out. We had also another, a fourteen- foot thing, on davits aft, where it was quite safe. “Then behold, the smoke suddenly decreased. We redoubled our efforts to flood the bottom of the ship. In two days there was no smoke at all. Everybody was on the broad grin. This was on a Friday. On Saturday no work, but sailing the ship of course was done. The men washed their clothes and their faces for the first time in a fortnight, and had a special dinner given them. They spoke of spontaneous combustion with contempt, and implied they were the boys to put out combustions. Somehow we all felt as though we each had inherited a large fortune. But a beastly smell of burning hung about the ship. Captain Beard had hollow eyes and sunken cheeks. I had never noticed so much before how twisted and bowed he was. He and Mahon prowled soberly about hatches and ventilators, sniffing. It struck me suddenly poor Mahon was a very, very old chap. As to me, I was as pleased and proud as though I had helped to win a great naval battle. O! Youth! “The night was fine. In the morning a homeward-bound ship passed us hull down—the first we had seen for months; but we were nearing the land at last, Java Head being about 190 miles off, and nearly due north.

223YOUTH “Next day it was my watch on deck from eight to twelve. At breakfast the captain observed, ‘It’s wonderful how that smell hangs about the cabin.’ About ten, the mate being on the poop, I stepped down on the main-deck for a moment. The carpenter’s bench stood abaft the mainmast: I leaned against it sucking at my pipe, and the carpenter, a young chap, came to talk to me. He remarked, ‘I think we have done very well, haven’t we?’ and then I perceived with annoyance the fool was trying to tilt the bench. I said curtly, ‘Don’t, Chips,’ and immediately became aware of a queer sensation, of an absurd delusion—I seemed somehow to be in the air. I heard all round me like a pent-up breath released—as if a thousand giants simultaneously had said Phoo!—and felt a dull concussion which made my ribs ache suddenly. No doubt about it—I was in the air, and my body was describing a short parabola. But short as it was, I had the time to think several thoughts in, as far as I can remember, the following order: This can’t be the carpenter—What is it?—Some accident—Submarine volcano?—Coals, gas!—By Jove! we are being blown up—Everybody’s dead—I am falling into the after-hatch—I see fire in it.’ “The coal-dust suspended in the air of the hold had glowed dull red at the moment of the explosion. In the twinkling of an eye, in an infinitesimal fraction of a second since the first tilt of the bench, I was sprawling full length on the cargo. I picked myself up and scrambled out. It was quick like a rebound. The deck was a wilderness of smashed timber, lying crosswise like trees in a wood after a hurricane; an immense curtain of soiled rags waved gently before me—it was the mainsail blown to strips. I thought, The masts will be toppling over directly; and to get out of the way bolted on all fours towards the poop-ladder. The first person I saw was Mahon, with eyes like saucers, his mouth open, and the long white hair standing straight on end round his head like a silver halo. He was just about to go down when the sight of the main-deck stirring, heaving up, and changing into splinters before his eyes, petrified him on the top step. I stared at him in unbelief, and he stared at me with a queer kind of shocked curiosity. I did not know that I had no hair, no eyebrows, no eyelashes, that my young moustache was burned off, that my f ace was black, one cheek laid open, my nose cut, and my chin bleeding. I had lost my cap, one of my slippers, and my shirt was torn to rags. Of all this I was not aware. I was amazed to see the ship still afloat, the poop-deck whole—and, most of all, to see anybody alive. Also the peace of the sky and the serenity of the sea were distinctly surprising. I suppose I expected to see them convulsed with horror. . . . Pass the bottle.

224 Joseph Conrad “There was a voice hailing the ship from somewhere—in the air, in the sky—I couldn’t tell. Presently I saw the captain—and he was mad. He asked me eagerly, ‘Where’s the cabin-table?’ and to hear such a question was a frightful shock. I had just been blown up, you understand, and vibrated with that experience—I wasn’t quite sure whether I was alive. Mahon began to stamp with both feet and yelled at him, ‘Good God! don’t you see the deck’s blown out of her?’ I found my voice, and stammered out as if conscious of some gross neglect of duty, ‘I don’t know where the cabin-table is.’ It was like an absurd dream. “Do you know what he wanted next? Well, he wanted to trim the yards. Very placidly, and as if lost in thought, he insisted on having the fore-yard squared. ‘I don’t know if there’s anybody alive,’ said Mahon, almost tearfully. ‘Surely,’ he said, gently, ‘there will be enough left to square the fore-yard.’ “The old chap, it seems, was in his own berth, winding up the chronometers, when the shock sent him spinning. Immediately it occurred to him—as he said afterwards—that the ship had struck something, and he ran out into the cabin. There, he saw, the cabin-table had vanished somewhere. The deck being blown up, it had fallen down into the lazaretto of course. Where we had our breakfast that morning he saw only a great hole in the floor. This appeared to him so awfully mysterious, and impressed him so immensely, that what he saw and heard after he got on deck were mere trifles in comparison. And, mark, he noticed directly the wheel deserted and his bark off her course—and his only thought was to get that miserable, stripped, undecked, smouldering shell of a ship back again with her head pointing at her port of destination. Bangkok! That’s what he was after. I tell you this quiet, bowed, bandy-legged, almost deformed little man was immense in the singleness of his idea and in his placid ignorance of our agitation. He motioned us forward with a commanding gesture, and went to take the wheel himself. “Yes; that was the first thing we did—trim the yards of that wreck! No one was killed, or even disabled, but everyone was more or less hurt. You should have seen them! Some were in rags, with black faces, like coal-heavers, like sweeps, and had bullet heads that seemed closely cropped, but were in fact singed to the skin. Others, of the watch below, awakened by being shot out from their collapsing bunks, shivered incessantly, and kept on groaning even as we went about our work. But they all worked. That crew of Liverpool hard cases had in them the right stuff. It’s my experience they always have. It is the sea that gives it—the vastness, the loneliness surrounding their dark stolid souls. Ah! Well!

225YOUTH we stumbled, we crept, we fell, we barked our shins on the wreckage, we hauled. The masts stood, but we did not know how much they might be charred down below. It was nearly calm, but a long swell ran from the west and made her roll. They might go at any moment. We looked at them with apprehension. One could not foresee which way they would fall. “Then we retreated aft and looked about us. The deck was a tangle of planks on edge, of planks on end, of splinters, of ruined woodwork. The masts rose from that chaos like big trees above a matted undergrowth. The interstices of that mass of wreckage were full of something whitish, sluggish, stirring—of something that was like a greasy fog. The smoke of the invisible fire was coming up again, was trailing, like a poisonous thick mist in some valley choked with dead wood. Already lazy wisps were beginning to curl upwards amongst the mass of splinters. Here and there a piece of timber, stuck upright, resembled a post. Half of a fife-rail had been shot through the fore-sail, and the sky made a patch of glorious blue in the ignobly soiled canvas. A portion of several boards holding together had fallen across the rail, and one end protruded overboard, like a gangway leading upon nothing, like a gangway leading over the deep sea, leading to death—as if inviting us to walk the plank at once and be done with our ridiculous troubles. And still the air, the sky—a ghost, something invisible was hailing the ship. “Someone had the sense to look over, and there was the helmsman, who had impulsively jumped overboard, anxious to come back. He yelled and swam lustily like a merman, keeping up with the ship. We threw him a rope, and presently he stood amongst us streaming with water and very crestfallen. The captain had surrendered the wheel, and apart, elbow on rail and chin in hand, gazed at the sea wistfully. We asked ourselves, What next? I thought, Now, that is something like. This is great. I wonder what will happen. O youth! “Suddenly Mahon sighted a steamer far astern. Captain Beard said, ‘We may do something with her yet.’ We hoisted two flags, which said in the international language of the sea, ‘On fire. Want immediate assistance.’ The steamer grew bigger rapidly, and by-and-by spoke with two flags on her foremast, ‘I am coming to your assistance.’ “In half an hour she was abreast, to windward, within hail, and rolling slightly, with her engines stopped. We lost our composure, and yelled all together with excitement, ‘We’ve been blown up.’ A man in a white helmet, on the bridge, cried, ‘Yes! All right! all right!’ and he nodded his head, and smiled, and made soothing motions with his hand as though at

226 Joseph Conrad a lot of frightened children. One of the boats dropped in the water, and walked towards us upon the sea with her long oars. Four Calashes pulled a swinging stroke. This was my first sight of Malay seamen. I’ve known them since, but what struck me then was their unconcern: they came alongside, and even the bowman standing up and holding to our main- chains with the boat-hook did not deign to lift his head for a glance. I thought people who had been blown up deserved more attention. “A little man, dry like a chip and agile like a monkey, clambered up. It was the mate of the steamer. He gave one look, and cried, ‘O boys— you had better quit.’ “We were silent. He talked apart with the captain for a time—seerned to argue with him. Then they went away together to the steamer. “When our skipper came back we learned that the steamer was the Sommerville, Captain Nash, from West Australia to Singapore via Batavia with mails, and that the agreement was she should tow us to Anjer or Batavia, if possible, where we could extinguish the fire by scuttling, and then proceed on our voyage—to Bangkok! The old man seemed excited. ‘We will do it yet,’ he said to Mahon, fiercely. He shook his fist at the sky. Nobody else said a word. “At noon the steamer began to tow. She went ahead slim and high, and what was left of the Judea followed at the end of seventy fathom of tow-rope—followed her swiftly like a cloud of smoke with mast-heads protruding above. We went aloft to furl the sails. We coughed on the yards, and were careful about the bunts. Do you see the lot of us there, putting a neat furl on the sails of that ship doomed to arrive nowhere? There was not a man who didn’t think that at any moment the masts would topple over. From aloft we could not see the ship for smoke, and they worked carefully, passing the gaskets with even turns. ‘Harbour furl—aloft there!’ cried Mahon from below. “You understand this? I don’t think one of those chaps expected to get down in the usual way. When we did I heard them saying to each other, ‘Well, I thought we would come down overboard, in a lump—sticks and all—blame me if I didn’t.’ ‘That’s what I was thinking to myself,’ would answer wearily another battered and bandaged scarecrow. And, mind, these were men without the drilled-in habit of obedience. To an onlooker they would be a lot of profane scallywags without a redeeming point. What made them do it—what made them obey me when I, thinking con- sciously how fine it was, made them drop the bunt of the fore-sail twice to try and do it better? What? They had no professional reputation—no examples, no praise. It wasn’t a sense of duty; they all knew well enough

227YOUTH how to shirk, and laze, and dodge—when they had a mind to it—and mostly they had. Was it the two pounds ten a month that sent them there? They didn’t think their pay half good enough. No; it was something in them, something inborn and subtle and everlasting. I don’t say positively that the crew of a French or German merchantman wouldn’t have done it, but I doubt whether it would have been done in the same way. There was a completeness in it, something solid like a principle, and masterful like an instinct—a disclosure of something secret—of that hidden something, that gift, of good or evil that makes racial difference, that shapes the fate of nations. “It was that night at ten that, for the first time since we had been fighting it, we saw the fire. The speed of the towing had fanned the smouldering destruction. A blue gleam appeared forward, shining below the wreck of the deck. It wavered in patches, it seemed to stir and creep like the light of a glow-worm. I saw it first, and told Mahon. Then the game’s up,’ he said. ‘We had better stop this towing, or she will burst out suddenly fore and aft before we can clear out.’ We set up a yell; rang bells to attract their attention; they towed on. At last Mahon and I had to crawl forward and cut the rope with an ax. There was no time to cast off the lashings. Red tongues could be seen licking the wilderness of splinters under our feet as we made our way back to the poop. “Of course they very soon found out in the steamer that the rope was gone. She gave a loud blast of her whistle, her lights were seen sweeping in a wide circle, she came up ranging close alongside, and stopped. We were all in a tight group on the poop looking at her. Every man had saved a little bundle or a bag. Suddenly a conical flame with a twisted top shot up forward and threw upon the black sea a circle of light, with the two vessels side by side and heaving gently in its centre. Captain Beard had been sitting on the gratings still and mute for hours, but now he rose slowly and advanced in front of us, to the mizen-shrouds. Captain Nash hailed: ‘Come along! Look sharp. I have mail-bags on board. I will take you and your boats to Singapore.’ “‘Thank you! No!’ said our skipper. ‘We must see the last of the ship.’ “‘I can’t stand by any longer,’ shouted the other. ‘Mails—you know.’ “‘Ay! ay! We are all right.’ “‘Very well! I’ll report you in Singapore. . . . Good-bye!’ “He waved his hand. Our men dropped their bundles quietly. The steamer moved ahead, and passing out of the circle of light, vanished at once from our sight, dazzled by the fire which burned fiercely. And then I knew that I would see the East first as commander of a small boat. I

228 Joseph Conrad thought it fine; and the fidelity to the old ship was fine. We should see the last of her. Oh the glamour of youth! Oh the fire of it, more dazzling than the flames of the burning ship, throwing a magic light on the wide earth, leaping audaciously to the sky, presently to be quenched by time, more cruel, more pitiless, more bitter than the sea—and like the flames of the burning ship surrounded by an impenetrable night. “The old man warned us in his gentle and inflexible way that it was part of our duty to save for the underwriters as much as we could of the ship’s gear. Accordingly we went to work aft, while she blazed forward to give us plenty of light. We lugged out a lot of rubbish. What didn’t we save? An old barometer fixed with an absurd quantity of screws nearly cost me my life: a sudden rush of smoke came upon me, and I just got away in time. There were various stores, bolts of canvas, coils of rope; the poop looked like a marine bazaar, and the boats were lumbered to the gunwales. One would have thought the old man wanted to take as much as he could of his first command with him. He was very, very quiet, but off his balance evidently. Would you believe it? He wanted to take a length of old stream-cable and a catch-anchor with him in the longboat. We said, ‘Ay, ay, sir,’ deferentially, and on the quiet let the thing slip overboard. The heavy medicine chest went that way, two bags of green coffee, tins of paint—fancy, paint!—a whole lot of things. Then I was ordered with two hands into the boats to make a stowage and get them ready against the time it would be proper for us to leave the ship. “We put everything straight, stepped the long-boat’s mast for our skipper, who was to take charge of her, and I was not sorry to sit down for a moment. My face felt raw, every limb ached as if broken, I was aware of all my ribs, and would have sworn to a twist in the backbone. The boats, fast astern, lay in a deep shadow, and all around I could see the circle of the sea lighted by the fire. A gigantic flame arose forward straight and clear. It flared fierce, with noises like the whir of wings, with rumbles as of thunder. There were cracks, detonations, and from the cone of flame the sparks flew upwards, as man is born to trouble, to leaky ships, and to ships that burn. “What bothered me was that the ship, lying broadside to the swell and to such wind as there was—a mere breath—the boats would not keep astern where they were safe, but persisted, in a pigheaded way boats have, in getting under the counter and then swinging alongside. They were knocking about dangerously and coming near the flame, while the ship rolled on them, and, of course, there was always the danger of the

229YOUTH masts going over the side at any moment. I and my two boat-keepers kept them off as best we could with oars and boat-hooks; but to be constantly at it became exasperating, since there was no reason why we should not leave at once. We could not see those on board, nor could we imagine what caused the delay. The boat-keepers were swearing feebly, and I had not only my share of the work, but also had to keep at it two men who showed a constant inclination to lay themselves down and let things slide. “At last I hailed ‘On deck there,’ and someone looked over. ‘We’re ready here,’ I said. The head disappeared and very soon popped up again. ‘The captain says, All right, sir, and to keep the boats well clear of the ship.’ “Half an hour passed. Suddenly there was a frightful racket, rattle, clanking of chain, hiss of water, and millions of sparks flew up into the shivering column of smoke that stood leaning slightly above the ship. The cat-heads had burned away, and the two red-hot anchors had gone to the bottom, tearing out after them two hundred fathom of red-hot chain. The ship trembled, the mass of flame swayed as if ready to collapse, and the fore top- gallant-mast fell. It darted down like an arrow of fire, shot under, and instantly leaping up within an oar’s-length of the boats, floated quietly, very black on the luminous sea. I hailed the deck again. After some time a man in an unexpectedly cheerful but also muffled tone, as though he had been trying to speak with his mouth shut, informed me, ‘Coming directly, sir,’ and vanished. For a long time I heard nothing but the whir and roar of the fire. There were also whistling sounds. The boats jumped, tugged at the painters, ran at each other playfully, knocked their sides together, or, do what we would, swung in a bunch against the ship’s side. I couldn’t stand it any longer, and swarming up a rope, clambered aboard over the stern. “It was as bright as day. Coming up like this, the sheet of fire facing me was a terrifying sight, and the heat seemed hardly bearable at first. On a settee cushion dragged out of the cabin, Captain Beard, with his legs drawn up and one arm under his head, slept with the light playing on him. Do you know what the rest were busy about? They were sitting on deck right aft, round an open case, eating bread and cheese and drinking bottled stout. “On the background of flames twisting in fierce tongues above their heads they seemed at home like salamanders, and looked like a band of desperate pirates. The fire sparkled in the whites of their eyes, gleamed on patches of white skin seen through the torn shirts. Each had the marks as of a battle about him—bandaged heads, tied-up arms, a strip of dirty rag round a knee—and each man had a bottle between his legs and a

230 Joseph Conrad chunk of cheese in his hand. Mahon got up. With his handsome and disreputable head, his hooked profile, his long white beard, and with an uncorked bottle in his hand, he resembled one of those reckless sea- robbers of old making merry amidst violence and disaster. ‘The last meal on board,’ he explained solemnly. ‘We had nothing to eat all day, and it was no use leaving all this.’ He flourished the bottle and indicated the sleeping skipper. ‘He said he couldn’t swallow anything, so I got him to lie down,’ he went on; and as I stared, ‘I don’t know whether you are aware, young fellow, the man had no sleep to speak of for days— and there will be dam’ little sleep in the boats.’ ‘There will be no boats byand-by if you fool about much longer,’ I said, indignantly. I walked up to the skipper and shook him by the shoulder. At last he opened his eyes, but did not move. ‘Time to leave her, sir,’ I said quietly. “He got up painfully, looked at the flames, at the sea sparkling round the ship, and black, black as ink farther away; he looked at the stars shining dim through a thin veil of smoke in a sky black, black as Erebus. “‘Youngest first,’ he said. “And the ordinary seaman, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, got up, clambered over the taffrail, and vanished. Others followed. One, on the point of going over, stopped short to drain his bottle, and with a great swing of his arm flung it at the fire. ‘Take this!’ he cried. “The skipper lingered disconsolately, and we left him to commune alone for a while with his first command. Then I went up again and brought him away at last. It was time. The ironwork on the poop was hot to the touch. “Then the painter of the long-boat was cut, and the three boats, tied together, drifted clear of the ship. It was just sixteen hours after the explosion when we abandoned her. Mahon had charge of the second boat, and I had the smallest—the 14-foot thing. The long-boat would have taken the lot of us; but the skipper said we must save as much property as we could—for the underwriters—and so I got my first command. I had two men with me, a bag of biscuits, a few tins of meat, and a breaker of water. I was ordered to keep close to the long-boat, that in case of bad weather we might be taken into her. “And do you know what I thought? I thought I would part company as soon as I could. I wanted to have my first command all to myself. I wasn’t going to sail in a squadron if there were a chance for independent cruising. I would make land by myself. I would beat the other boats. Youth! All youth! The silly, charming, beautiful youth. “But we did not make a start at once. We must see the last of the ship.

231YOUTH And so the boats drifted about that night, heaving and setting on the swell. The men dozed, waked, sighed, groaned. I looked at the burning ship. “Between the darkness of earth and heaven she was burning fiercely upon a disc of purple sea shot by the blood-red play of gleams; upon a disc of water glittering and sinister. A high, clear flame, an immense and lonely flame, ascended from the ocean, and from its summit the black smoke poured continuously at the sky. She burned furiously; mournful and imposing like a funeral pile kindled in the night, surrounded by the sea, watched over by the stars. A magnificent death had come like a grace, like a gift, like a reward to that old ship at the end of her laborious days. The surrender of her weary ghost to the keeping of stars and sea was stirring like the sight of a glorious triumph. The masts fell just before daybreak, and for a moment there was a burst and turmoil of sparks that seemed to fill with flying fire the night patient and watchful, the vast night lying silent upon the sea. At daylight she was only a charred shell, floating still under a cloud of smoke and bearing a glowing mass of coal within. “Then the oars were got out, and the boats forming in a line moved round her remains as if in procession—the long-boat leading. As we pulled across her stern a slim dart of fire shot out viciously at us, and suddenly she went down, head first, in a great hiss of steam. The unconsumed stern was the last to sink; but the paint had gone, had cracked, had peeled off, and there were no letters, there was no word, no stubborn device that was like her soul, to flash at the rising sun her creed and her name. “We made our way north. A breeze sprang up, and about noon all the boats came together for the last time. I had no mast or sail in mine, but I made a mast out of a spare oar and hoisted a boat-awning for a sail, with a boat-hook for a yard. She was certainly overmasted, but I had the satisfaction of knowing that with the wind aft I could beat the other two. I had to wait for them. Then we all had a look at the captain’s chart, and, after a sociable meal of hard bread and water, got our last instructions. These were simple: steer north and keep together as much as possible. ‘Be careful with that jury-rig, Marlow,’ said the captain; and Mahon, as I sailed proudly past his boat, wrinkled his curved nose and hailed, ‘You will sail that ship of yours under water if you don’t look out, young fellow.’ He was a malicious old man—and may the deep sea where he sleeps now rock him gently, rock him tenderly to the end of time! “Before sunset a thick rain squall passed over the two boats, which were

232 Joseph Conrad far astern, and that was the last I saw of them for a time. Next day I sat steering my cockle-shell—my first command—with nothing but water and sky around me. I did sight in the afternoon the upper sails of a ship far away, but said nothing, and my men did not notice her. You see I was afraid she might be homeward bound, and I had no mind to turn back from the portals of the East. I was steering for Java—another blessed name—like Bangkok, you know. I steered many days. “I need not tell you what it is to be knocking about in an open boat. I remember nights and days of calm, and we pulled, we pulled, and the boat seemed to stand still, as if bewitched within the circle of the sea horizon. I remember the heat, the deluge of rain squalls that kept us baling for dear life (but filled our water-cask), and I remember sixteen hours on end with a mouth dry as a cinder and a steering-oar over the stern to keep my first command head on to a breaking sea. I did not know how good a man I was till then. I remember the drawn faces, the dejected figures of my two men, and I remember my youth and the feeling that will never come back any more—the feeling that I could last for ever, outlast the sea, the earth, and all men; the deceitful feeling that lures us on to joys, to perils, to love, to vain effort—to death; the triumphant conviction of strength, the heat of life in the handful of dust, the glow in the heart that with every year grows dim, grows cold, grows small, and expires—and expires, too soon, too soon—before life itself. “And this is how I see the East. I have seen its secret places and have looked into its very soul; but now I see it always from a small boat, a high outline of mountains, blue and afar in the morning; like faint mist at noon; a jagged wall of purple at sunset. I have the feel of the oar in my hand, the vision of a scorching blue sea in my eyes. And I see a bay, a wide bay, smooth as glass and polished like ice, shimmering in the dark. A red light burns far off upon the gloom of the land, and the night is soft and warm. We drag at the oars with aching arms, and suddenly a puff of wind, a puff faint and tepid and laden with strange odours of blossoms, of aromatic wood, comes out of the still night—the first sigh of the East on my face. That I can never forget. It was impalpable and enslaving, like a charm, like a whispered promise of mysterious delight. “We had been pulling this finishing spell for eleven hours. Two pulled, and he whose turn it was to rest sat at the tiller. We had made out the red light in that bay and steered for it, guessing it must mark some small coasting port. We passed two vessels, outlandish and high-sterned, sleep- ing at anchor, and, approaching the light, now very dim, ran the boat’s

233YOUTH nose against the end of a jutting wharf. We were blind with fatigue. My men dropped the oars and fell off the thwarts as if dead. I made fast to a pile. A current rippled softly. The scented obscurity of the shore was grouped into vast masses, a density of colossal clumps of vegetation, probably—mute and fantastic shapes. And at their foot the semicircle of a beach gleamed faintly, like an illusion. There was not a light, not a stir, not a sound. The mysterious East faced me, perfumed like a flower, silent like death, dark like a grave. “And I sat weary beyond expression, exulting like a conqueror, sleepless and entranced as if before a profound, a fateful enigma. “A splashing of oars, a measured dip reverberating on the level of water, intensified by the silence of the shore into loud claps, made me jump up. A boat, a European boat, was coming in. I invoked the name of the dead; I hailed: Judea ahoy! A thin shout answered. “It was the captain. I had beaten the flagship by three hours, and I was glad to hear the old man’s voice again, tremulous and tired. ‘Is it you, Marlow?’ ‘Mind the end of that jetty, sir,’ I cried. “He approached cautiously, and brought up with the deep-sea leadline which we had saved—for the underwriters. I eased my painter and fell alongside. He sat, a broken figure at the stern, wet with dew, his hands clasped in his lap. His men were asleep already. ‘I had a terrible time of it,’ he murmured. ‘Mahon is behind—not very far.’ We conversed in whispers, in low whispers, as if afraid to wake up the land. Guns, thunder, earthquakes would not have awakened the men just then. “Looking round as we talked, I saw away at sea a bright light travelling in the night. ‘There’s a steamer passing the bay,’ I said. She was not passing, she was entering, and she even came close and anchored. ‘I wish,’ said the old man, ‘you would find out whether she is English. Perhaps they could give us a passage somewhere.’ He seemed nervously anxious. So by dint of punching and kicking I started one of my men into a state of somnambulism, and giving him an oar, took another and pulled towards the lights of the steamer. “There was a murmur of voices in her, metallic hollow clangs of the engine-room, footsteps on the deck. Her ports shone, round like dilated eyes. Shapes moved about, and there was a shadowy man high up on the bridge. He heard my oars. “And then, before I could open my lips, the East spoke to me, but it was in a Western voice. A torrent of words was poured into the enigmati- cal, the fateful silence: outlandish, angry words, mixed with words and even whole sentences of good English, less strange but even more surpris-

234 Joseph Conrad ing. The voice swore and cursed violently; it riddled the solemn peace of the bay by a volley of abuse. It began by calling me Pig, and from that went crescendo into unmentionable adjectives—in English. The man up there raged aloud in two languages, and with a sincerity in his fury that almost convinced me I had, in some way, sinned against the harmony of the universe. I could hardly see him, but began to think he would work himself into a fit. “Suddenly he ceased, and I could hear him snorting and blowing like a porpoise. I said— “‘What steamer is this, pray?’ “‘Eh? What’s this? And who are you?’ “‘Castaway crew of an English bark burned at sea. We came here to- night. I am the second mate. The captain is in the long-boat, and wishes to know if you would give us a passage somewhere.’ “‘Oh, my goodness! I say. . . . This is the Celestial from Singapore on her return trip. I’ll arrange with your captain in the morning, . . . and, . . . I say, . . . did you hear me just now?’ “‘I should think the whole bay heard you.’ “ ‘I thought you were a shore-boat. Now, look here—this infernal lazy scoundrel of a caretaker has gone to sleep again—curse him. The light is out, and I nearly ran foul of the end of this damned jetty. This is the third time he plays me this trick. Now, I ask you, can anybody stand this kind of thing? It’s enough to drive a man out of his mind. I’ll report him. . . . I’ll get the Assistant Resident to give him the sack, by . . . ! See—there’s no light. It’s out, isn’t it! I take you to witness the light’s out. There should be a light, you know. A red light on the—’ “‘There was a light,’ I said, mildly. “‘But it’s out, man! What’s the use of talking like this? You can see for yourself it’s out—don’t you? If you had to take a valuable steamer along this God-forsaken coast you would want a light, too. I’ll kick him from end to end of his miserable wharf. You’ll see if I don’t. I will—’ “‘So I may tell my captain you’ll take us?’ I broke in. “‘Yes, I’ll take you. Good night,’ he said, brusquely. “I pulled back, made fast again to the jetty, and then went to sleep at last. I had faced the silence of the East. I had heard some of its language. But when I opened my eyes again the silence was as complete as though it had never been broken. I was lying in a flood of light, and the sky had never looked so far, so high, before. I opened my eyes and lay without moving. “And then I saw the men of the East—they were looking at me. The

235YOUTH whole length of the jetty was full of people. I saw brown, bronze, yellow faces, the black eyes, the glitter, the colour of an Eastern crowd. And all these beings stared without a murmur, without a sigh, without a movement. They stared down at the boats, at the sleeping men who at night had come to them from the sea. Nothing moved. The fronds of palms stood still against the sky. Not a branch stirred along the shore, and the brown roofs of hidden houses peeped through the green foliage, through the big leaves that hung shining and still like leaves forged of heavy metal. This was the East of the ancient navigators, so old, so mysterious, resplendent and sombre, living and unchanged, full of danger and promise. And these were the men. I sat up suddenly. A wave of movement passed through the crowd from end to end, passed along the heads, swayed the bodies, ran along the jetty like a ripple on the water, like a breath of wind on a field—and all was still again. I see it now—the wide sweep of the bay, the glittering sands, the wealth of green infinite and varied, the sea blue like the sea of a dream, the crowd of attentive faces, the blaze of vivid colour—the water reflecting it all, the curve of the shore, the jetty, the high-sterned outlandish craft floating still, and the three boats with the tired men from the West sleeping, unconscious of the land and the people and of the violence of sunshine. They slept thrown across the thwarts, curled on bottom-boards, in the careless attitudes of death. The head of the old skipper, leaning back in the stern of the long- boat, had fallen on his breast, and he looked as though he would never wake. Farther out old Mahon’s face was upturned to the sky, with the long white beard spread out on his breast, as though he had been shot where he sat at the tiller; and a man, all in a heap in the bows of the boat, slept with both arms embracing the stem-head and with his cheek laid on the gunwale. The East looked at them without a sound. “I have known its fascination since; I have seen the mysterious shores, the still water, the lands of brown nations, where a stealthy Nemesis lies in wait, pursues, overtakes so many of the conquering race, who are proud of their wisdom, of their knowledge, of their strength. But for me all the East is contained in that vision of my youth. It is all in that moment when I opened my young eyes on it. I came upon it from a tussle with the sea—and I was young—and I saw it looking at me. And this is all that is left of it! Only a moment; a moment of strength, of romance, of glamour—of youth! . . . A flick of sunshine upon a strange shore, the time to remember, the time for a sigh, and—good-bye!—Night— Good-bye . . . !” He drank. “Ah! The good old time—the good old time. Youth and the sea. Glamour

236 Joseph Conrad and the sea! The good, strong sea, the salt, bitter sea, that could whisper to you and roar at you and knock your breath out of you.” He drank again. “By all that’s wonderful it is the sea, I believe, the sea itself—or is it youth alone? Who can tell? But you here—you all had something out of life: money, love—whatever one gets on shore—and, tell me, wasn’t that the best time, that time when we were young at sea; young and had nothing, on the sea that gives nothing, except hard knocks—and sometimes a chance to feel your strength—that only—what you all regret?” And we all nodded at him: the man of finance, the man of accounts, the man of law, we all nodded at him over the polished table that like a still sheet of brown water reflected our faces, lined, wrinkled; our faces marked by toil, by deceptions, by success, by love; our weary eyes looking still, looking always, looking anxiously for something out of life, that while it is expected is already gone—has passed unseen, in a sigh, in a flash—together with the youth, with the strength, with the romance of illusions.

237 Voltaire 1694–1778 Voltaire (pen name of François Marie Arouet), the son of a notary,was born in Paris on November 21, 1694. He was educated at the Jesuit Collège Louis-le-Grand. He read law and visited The Hague in the Marquis de Châteauneuf’s suite. In Paris he belonged to the “Court of Sceaux,” the circle of the beautiful Duchesse du Maine. In 1716, apparently for writing lampoons, he was exiled for the first time. When he came back, he was sent to the Bastille. There he rewrote his play Oedipus and changed his name to Voltaire. He was released the following year. Oedipus opened in 1718 and had a prosperous run. With the royalties Voltaire made the first of a thousand profitable speculations. But trouble was his native weather. He found it prudent to exile himself again. When he returned to Paris in 1720, his play Artémire was put on and failed. His father left him a considerable fortune. The Regent granted him a pension. In 1722 he went to Belgium and Holland on a secret diplomatic mission. After an unfortunate opening, his tragedy Mariamne was rewritten and did very well. In the early 1720’s he worked at being a courtier under the wing of the Duc de Richelieu. He was insulted by the Chevalier de Rohan and replied in kind. Rohan had him beaten. He challenged the Chevalier to a duel but on the appointed morning he was thrown into the Bastille again. Voltaire spent three years in England, where he met the Wal- poles, Congreve, and Pope. Back in Paris in 1729, he was busy with such projects as the Henriade and a series of new plays—Brutus, Eriphile, and Zaïre. Two notable satires, Philosophic Letters on the English and The Temple of Fashion, got him into trouble again. He retired to Lorraine, where he and the Marquise du Châtelet fitted out an old château at Cirey. He wrote prodigiously. Mérope is prob-

238 Voltaire ably his most respected work of this period, but it did not appear on the stage until 1743. During the 1740’s he was again at court. In 1745 he was made historiographer-royal and the next year elected to the French Academy. By this time he was the great star of the Enlightenment and the most famous writer in Europe. He accepted Frederick of Prussia’s invitations to the Prussian court in 1751, but quarrels and difficulties caused him to leave Potsdam. He was arrested in Frankfurt and refused permission to enter France. He went to Switzerland and there set up his famous residence at Ferney, near Geneva. In 1759 he wrote Candide. He was visited by the great of Europe. He never refused a fight for political liberty. In 1778 he made a last triumphal entry into Paris, where his new play, Irène, was produced. He died there on May 30 of the same year. We read Micromégas (the name means “Little-Big”) with one eye on Voltaire’s time and one eye on our own. He is writing about astronauts— and he was not the first—who preceded by many years Yuri Gagarin and John Glenn. To him the movement between worlds was outright fantasy—and what an easy time his astronauts had of it, with their hitching a ride on a comet and their transit by sunbeam from globe to globe “as a bird flutters from branch to branch.” We smile a little. For us, travel in space is already possible. We have done it. Other worlds are clearly in reach. We notice at once that, as the title suggests, the satire of Micro- mégas revolves almost completely on the idea of relative quantity. It is a statistician’s fantasy, in which the mathematician (junior grade), the surveyor, the controller of weights and measures, the demogra- pher, the astronomer, and the physicist may all find them-selves amusingly at home. May we infer, from the height of Mr. Micromégas Notes from the artist: “. . . Voltaire as an old man above the profile of Louis XIV, of whose court (and of those of the other ‘philosopher kings’) Voltaire felt himself to be a jester who laughed ‘in order to keep myself from going mad.’ At lower right is a scene from Candide.”

240 Voltaire the Sirian, the circumference of his waist and even the scale of his planet? If he is grown up at the age of four hundred and fifty, at what age is he likely to die? The Saturnian secretary is a mere 6,000 feet tall. How will he manage to talk to Micromégas? Fortunately, apart from size, the inhabitants of all the worlds speak the same language. The Sirian and the Saturnian, though one has a thousand senses and the other only seventy-two, get along very well with each other. Each bewails the shortness of life, though one lives seven hundred times longer than the other. Amiably, but in the face of some protest from the Saturnian’s friend, “a pretty little dark girl who stood only six hundred and sixty fathoms,” they set out on a tour of the universe. On the planet Earth they find the most amazing creatures of all—maggots who are both wise and wicked, whose philosophers make a point of disagreeing with each other, and who are “possessed of an arrogance almost infinitely great.” “I see more than ever,” says Micromégas, “that nothing must be judged by its apparent size.”

241 Micromégas CHAPTER I Journey of an Inhabitant of the World of the Star Sirius into the Planet Saturn n one of those planets which revolve round the star named Sirius there was a young man of much wit with whom I had the honor to be acquainted during the last visit he made to our little anthill. He was called Micromégas, a name very well suited to all big men. His height was eight leagues: by eight leagues I mean twenty-four thousand geometrical paces of five feet each. Some of the mathematicians, persons of unending public utility, will at once seize their pens and discover that, since Mr. Micromégas, inhabitant of the land of Sirius, measures from head to foot twenty-four thousand paces (which make one-hundred-and-twenty thousand royal feet), and since we other citizens of the earth measure barely five feet, and our globe has a circumference of nine thousand leagues—they will discover, I say, that it follows absolutely that the globe which produced Mr. Micromégas must have exactly twenty-one million six hundred thousand times more circumference than our little earth. Nothing in nature is simpler or more ordinary. The states of certain German and Italian sovereigns, round which one may travel completely in half an hour, compared with the empires of Turkey, Muscovy, or China, are but a very feeble example of the prodigious differences which nature contrives everywhere. His Excellency’s stature being as I have stated, all our sculptors and all our painters will agree without difficulty that he is fifty thousand royal feet round the waist; which makes him very nicely proportioned. As regards his mind, it is one of the most cultured we possess. He knows many things, and has invented a few. He had not yet reached the age of two-hundred-and-fifty, and was studying, according to custom, at the

242 Voltaire Jesuit college in his planet, when he solved by sheer brain power more than fifty of the problems of Euclid. That is eighteen more than Blaise Pascal, who, after solving thirty-two to amuse himself, according to his sister, became a rather mediocre geometer and a very inferior metaphysician. Toward the age of four hundred and fifty, when his childhood was past, he dissected many of those little insects which, not being a hundred feet across, escape the ordinary microscope. He wrote about them a very singular book, which, however, brought him some trouble. The mufti of his country, a hair-splitter of great ignorance, found in it assertions that were suspicious, rash, offensive, unorthodox, and savoring of heresy, and prosecuted him vigorously. The question was whether the bodies of Sirian fleas were made of the same substance as the bodies of Sirian slugs. Micromégas defended himself with spirit, and brought all the women to his way of thinking. The case lasted two hundred and twenty years, and ended by the mufti having the book condemned by some jurists who had not read it, and by the author being banished from the court for eight hundred years. Micromégas was only moderately distressed at being banished from a court which was such a hotbed of meannesses and vexations. He wrote a very droll song against the mufti, which hardly troubled that dignitary, and set forth on a journey from planet to planet in order to finish forming his heart and mind, as the saying is. Those who travel only in post-chaise and coach will be astonished, doubtless, at the methods of transport in the world above, for we on our little mud-heap cannot imagine anything outside the range of our ordinary experience. Our traveler had a marvelous knowledge of the laws of gravitation, and of the forces of repulsion and attraction. He made such excellent use of them that sometimes by the good offices of a comet, and at others by the help of a sunbeam, he and his friends went from globe to globe as a bird flutters from branch to branch. He traversed the Milky Way in no time, and I am forced to confess that he never saw through the stars with which it is sown the beautiful paradise that the illustrious and reverend Mr. Derham boasts of having seen at the end of his spyglass. Not that I claim that Mr. Derham’s eyesight is bad: God forbid! but Micromégas was on the spot, he is a sound observer, and I do not wish to contradict anyone. After making a long tour, Micromégas reached the globe of Saturn. Although he was accustomed to see new things, he could not, on beholding the littleness of the globe and its inhabitants, refrain from that superior

243M ICROMÉGAS smile to which even the wisest men are sometimes subject. For Saturn, after all, is hardly more than nine hundred times bigger than the earth, and its citizens are dwarfs only about a thousand fathoms tall. He and his friends laughed at them at first, much as an Italian musician, when he comes to France, laughs at Lulli’s music. The Sirian had good brains, however, and understood quickly that a thinking being may very well not be ridiculous merely because his height is only six thousand feet. Having started by amazing the Saturnians, he finished by becoming intimate with them. He engaged in a close friendship with the secretary of the Academy of Saturn, a man of much wit, who, although he had indeed invented nothing himself, yet had a very good idea of the inventions of others, and had produced quite passable light verses and weighty computations. I will record here for the benefit of my readers an odd conversation which Micromégas had with Mr. Secretary. CHAPTER II Conversation of the Inhabitant of Sirius with the Inhabitant of Saturn When His Excellency had laid himself down, and the secretary had drawn near to his face, Micromégas spoke. “It must be admitted,” he said, “that there is plenty of variety in nature.” “Yes,” agreed the Saturnian, “nature is like a flower bed of which the flowers . . . ” “Enough of your flower bed,” said the other. “Nature,” resumed the secretary, “is like a company of fair women and dark women whose apparel . . . ” “What have I to do with your dark women?” said the other. “Well, then, nature is like a gallery of pictures whose features . . . ” “Oh, no!” said the traveler. “I tell you once more—nature is like nature. Why seek to compare it with anything?” “To please you,” answered the secretary. “I do not want people to please me,” replied the traveler. “I want them to teach me. Begin by telling me how many senses men in your world have.” “We have seventy-two,” said the academician, “and we complain every day that we have not more. Our imagination surpasses our needs. We find that with our seventy-two senses, our ring, and our five moons, we are too limited; and despite all our curiosity and the fairly large number

244 Voltaire of emotions arising from our seventy-two senses, we have plenty of time to be bored.” “That I can quite understand,” said Micromégas, “for although in our world we have nearly a thousand senses, we still have an indescribable, vague yearning, an inexpressible restlessness, which warns us incessantly that we are of small account, and that there exist beings far more perfect. I have traveled a little, and I have seen mortals much below our level; I have also seen others far superior: but I have not seen any who have not more appetites than real needs, and more needs than contentment. One day, maybe, I shall reach the country where nobody lacks anything, but up to now no one has given me definite news of that country.” The Saturnian and the Sirian proceeded to tire themselves out with conjectures, but after many very ingenious and very uncertain arguments, they were forced to return to facts. “How long do you live?” asked the Sirian. “Ah! a very short time,” replied the small man of Saturn. “Just as with us,” said the Sirian. “We are always complaining how short life is. It must be one of the universal laws of nature.” “Alas!” sighed the Saturnian. “We live for only five hundred complete revolutions of the sun. (That makes fifteen thousand years, or thereabouts, according to our reckoning.) As you can see, that means dying almost as soon as one is born. Our existence is a point, our duration a flash, our globe an atom. Hardly has one started to improve one’s self a little than death arrives before one has any experience. For my part, I dare make no plans; I am like a drop of water in an immense ocean. I am ashamed, particularly before you, of the ridiculous figure I cut in this world.” “If you were not a philosopher,” returned Micromégas, “I should fear to distress you by telling you that our life is seven hundred times as long as yours, but you know too well that when a man has to return his body to the earth whence it sprang, to bring life again to nature in another form—which is called dying—it is precisely the same thing, when the time for this metamorphosis arrives, whether he has lived a day or an eternity. I have been in countries where the people lived a thousand times longer than my people, and they still grumbled. But everywhere there are persons who know how to accept their fate and thank the author of nature. He has spread over this universe variety in profusion, coupled with a kind of wonderful uniformity. For instance, all thinking beings are different, and yet at bottom all resemble each other in their possession of the gifts of thought and aspiration. Matter is found everywhere, but in each globe

245M ICROMÉGAS it has different properties. How many of these properties do you count your matter as having?” “If you speak of those properties,” said the Saturnian, “without which we believe our globe could not exist in its present form, we count three hundred, such as extension, impenetrability, mobility, gravitation, divisibility, and so on.” “It appears,” said the traveler, “that for the Creator’s purposes regarding your insignificant abode that small number suffices. I admire His wisdom in everything. I see differences everywhere, but everywhere also I see proportion. Your world is small, and so are its occupants; you have few sensations; your matter has few properties: all that is the work of Providence. Of what color does your sun prove to be if you examine it closely?” “Of a very yellowish white,” said the Saturnian; “and when we split up one of its rays we find it contains seven colors.” “Our sun,” remarked the Sirian, “is reddish, and we have thirty-nine primary colors. Of all the suns I have approached there are no two which are alike, just as with you there is no face which does not differ from all the other faces.” After several questions of this kind, he inquired how many essentially different substances they counted in Saturn. He learned that they counted only about thirty, such as God, Space, Matter, substances which have Extension and Feeling, substances which have Extension, Feeling and Thought, substances which have Thought and no Extension; those which are self-conscious, those which are not self-conscious, and the rest. The Sirian, in whose world they counted three hundred, and who had discovered in his travels three thousand others, staggered the philosopher of Saturn. At last, after acquainting each other with a little of what they did know and a great deal of what they did not, after arguing during a complete revolution of the sun, they decided to make together a little philosophical journey. CHAPTER III Journey of the Two Inhabitants of Sirius and Saturn Our two philosophers were ready to set forth into the atmosphere of Saturn, with a nice supply of mathematical instruments, when the Saturnian’s mistress, who had heard of their approaching departure, came in tears to protest. She was a pretty little dark girl who stood only six

246 Voltaire hundred and sixty fathoms; but she made amends for her small stature by many other charms. “Ah! cruel man,” she cried, “when after resisting you for fifteen hundred years I was beginning at last to give way, when I have passed barely a hundred years in your arms, you leave me to go on a journey with a giant from another world. Away with you! your intentions are not serious, you are nothing but a philanderer, you have never loved me: if you were a real Saturnian you would be faithful. Where are you going to gad about? What do you seek? Our five moons are less errant than you, our ring is less variable. One thing is certain! I shall never love anyone else.” The philosopher kissed her, wept with her, for all that he was a philosopher, and the lady after having swooned went off to console herself with one of the dandies of the land. Meanwhile, our two seekers after knowledge departed. First they jumped on the ring; they found it to be fairly flat, as an illustrious inhabitant of our little globe has very well guessed. Thence they journeyed from moon to moon. A comet passed quite close to the last one they visited; with their servants and instruments they hurled themselves on it. When they had covered about a hundred and fifty million leagues they came upon the satellites of Jupiter. They came to Jupiter itself, and stayed there a year, during which time they learned some very wonderful secrets that would now be in the hands of the printers had not my lords the inquisitors found some of the propositions rather tough. But I read the manuscript in the library of the illustrious archbishop of——, who, with a generosity and kindness which cannot be sufficiently praised, allowed me to see his books. But let us return to our travelers. When they left Jupiter they crossed a space about a hundred million leagues wide, and passed along the coast of Mars, which, as we know, is five times smaller than our little globe. They saw two moons which serve this planet, and which have escaped the attention of our astronomers. I am well aware that Father Castel will decry, even with humor, the existence of these two moons, but I take my stand on those who reason by analogy. Those good philo- sophers know how difficult it would be for Mars, which is so far from the sun, to do without at least two moons. Whatever the facts are, our friends found Mars so small that they feared they might not have room enough to lay themselves down, and so they continued on their road like two travelers who scorn a miserable village inn, and push on to the nearest town. But the Sirian and his companion soon repented, for they traveled a long while without finding anything. At last they perceived a small glimmer:

247M ICROMÉGAS it was the earth, and it stirred the pity of the people coming from Jupiter. However, fearing that they might have to repent a second time, they decided to land. They passed along the tail of the comet and, finding an aurora borealis handy, climbed on the tail of the comet, and touched land on the northern coast of the Baltic Sea, the fifth of July, seventeen hundred and thirty-seven, new style. CHAPTER IV What Happened to Them on Earth After a short rest, they ate for lunch two mountains which their attendants served up for them quite nicely, and then had a mind to explore the minute country in which they found themselves. They went first from north to south. The usual pace of the Sirian and his people measured about thirty- thousand king’s feet. The dwarf from Saturn followed at a distance, panting, for he had to take twelve paces to each of the other’s strides. Picture to yourself (if such a comparison be permitted) a very small lap-dog following a captain of the King of Prussia’s Guards. As these foreigners moved rather quickly, they circled the world in thirty-six hours. The sun, or rather the earth, it is true, does a like journey in a day, but it must be remembered that it is easier to travel on one’s axis than on one’s feet. Here they are, then, returned to the point whence they started. They have seen the puddle, almost imperceptible to them, which we call the “Mediterranean,” and that other little pond which under the name of the “Great Ocean” surrounds the mole-hill. The water had never come above the dwarf s knees, and the other had scarcely wet his heels. Moving above and below, they did their best to discover whether or no this globe was inhabited. They stooped, laid themselves down flat, and sounded everywhere; but as their eyes and their hands were in nowise adapted to the diminutive beings which crawl here, they perceived nothing which might make them suspect that we and our colleagues, the other dwellers on this earth, have the honor to exist. The dwarf, who sometimes judged a little too hastily, decided at once that there was no one on the earth, his first reason being that he had seen no one. Micromégas politely made him feel that it was a poor enough reason. “With your little eyes,” he said, “you do not see certain stars of the fiftieth magnitude, which I perceive very distinctly. Do you conclude from your blindness that these stars do not exist?” “But,” said the dwarf, “I have searched well.”

248 Voltaire “But,” replied the other, “you have seen badly.” “But,” said the dwarf, “this globe is so badly constructed and so irregular; it is of a form which to me seems ridiculous! Everything here is in chaos, apparently. Do you see how none of those little brooks run straight? And those ponds which are neither round, square, oval, nor of any regular form? Look at all those little pointed things with which this world is studded; they have taken the skin off my feet! (He referred to the mountains.) Do you not observe the shape of the globe, how flat it is at the poles, and how clumsily it turns round the sun, with result that the polar regions are waste places? What really makes me think there is no one on the earth is that I cannot imagine any sensible people wanting to live here.” “Well, well!” said Micromégas, “perhaps the people who live here are not sensible after all. But anyway there is an indication that the place was not made for nothing. You say that everything here looks irregular, because in Jupiter and Saturn everything is arranged in straight lines. Perhaps it is for that very reason there is something of a jumble here. Have I not told you that in my travels I have always observed variety?” The Saturnian replied to all these arguments, and the discussion might never have finished had not Micromégas become excited with talking, and by good luck broken the string of his diamond necklace. The diamonds fell to the ground. They were pretty little stones, but rather unequal; the biggest weighed four hundred pounds, the smallest fifty. The dwarf picked some of them up, and perceived when he put them to his eye that from the way they were cut they made first-rate magnifying glasses. He took, therefore, one of these small magnifying glasses, a hundred and sixty feet in diameter, and put it to his eye; Micromégas selected one of two thousand five hundred feet. They were excellent, but at first nothing could be seen by their aid; an adjustment was necessary. After a long time, the inhabitant of Saturn saw something almost imperceptible under water in the Baltic Sea: it was a whale. Very adroitly he picked it up with his little finger and, placing it on his thumbnail, showed it to the Sirian, who started laughing at the extreme smallness of the inhabitants of our globe. The Saturnian, satisfied that our world was inhabited after all, assumed immediately that all the inhabitants were whales, and as he was a great reasoner wished to ascertain how so small an atom moved, if it had ideas, a will, self-direction. Micromégas was very embarrassed by his questions. He examined the animal with great patience, and finished by thinking it impossible that a soul lodged there. The two travelers were disposed to think, therefore, that there was no

249M ICROMÉGAS spirituality in our earthly abode. While they were considering the matter, they noticed with the aid of the magnifying glass something bigger than a whale floating on the Baltic Sea. It will be remembered that at that very time a bevy of philosophers were on their way back from the Arctic Circle, where they had gone to make observations of which nobody up to then had taken any notice. The papers said that their ship foundered on the shores of Bothnia, and that the philosophers had a very narrow escape. But in this world one never knows what goes on behind the scenes. What really happened I will relate quite simply and without adding one word of my own. And that is no small effort for a historian. CHAPTER V Experiences and Reasonings of the Two Travelers Micromégas stretched forth his hand very gently toward the spot where the object appeared, and put out two fingers; withdrew them for fear of making a mistake, then opening and closing them, very adroitly took hold of the ship carrying these gentlemen, and placed it on his nail, without squeezing too much for fear of crushing it. “This animal is quite different from the first one,” said the dwarf from Saturn, while the Sirian deposited the supposed animal in the hollow of his hand. The passengers and the crew, who thought they had been swept up by a cyclone and cast on a kind of rock, started bustling. The sailors took some casks of wine, threw them overboard on Micromégas’ hand, and hurled themselves down after them. The geometers took their quadrants, their sectors, and two Lapp girls, and climbed down to the Sirian’s fingers. They made such a commotion that finally he felt something tickling him. It was an iron-shod pole which the philosophers were driving a foot deep into his forefinger. From the itching he judged that something had issued from the little animal he held, but at first he did not suspect anything further. The magnifying glass, which could scarcely discern a whale and a ship, had perforce no cognizance of such diminutive creatures as men. I do not wish to offend here anyone’s vanity, but I feel obliged to ask self- important persons to note with me that, if the average height of a man be taken as five feet, we do not cut a better figure on this earth than would an animal about one six-hundred-thousandth of an inch high on a ball ten feet in circumference. Imagine a being which could hold the earth in its

250 Voltaire hand and which had organs in proportion to ours—and it is very likely there would be a great number of these beings: then conceive, I ask you, what they would think of those battles which let a conqueror win a village only to lose it in the sequel. I do not doubt that if some captain of giant grenadiers ever reads this work, he will increase by at least two feet the height of his soldiers’ forage-caps, but it will be in vain, I warn him: he and his will never be anything but infinitely little. What marvelous perspicacity would not our Sirian philosopher need, then, to descry the atoms of which I have just spoken? When Leeuwenhoek and Hartsoeker were the first to see, or think that they saw, the germ of which we are fashioned, they did not, by a long way, make such an astonishing discovery. What pleasure Micromégas experienced in seeing these little machines move, in examining all their tricks, in following all their performances! How he cried out with glee! With what joy did he hand one of his magnifying glasses to his traveling companion! “I see them!” they exclaimed in concert. “Do you not see them carrying bundles, stooping and standing up again?” As they spoke, their hands trembled, both in delight at seeing such novel objects and in fear of losing them. The Saturnian, passing rapidly from an excess of doubt to an excess of credulousness, thought he observed them to be propagating their species. “Ah!” he said. “I have caught nature red-handed.” But he was deceived by appearances—which happens only too often, whether one uses a magnifying glass or not. CHAPTER VI What Befell Them with the Men Micromégas, who was a much closer observer than his dwarf, saw clearly that the atoms were talking to each other, and drew his companion’s attention thereto. The dwarf, ashamed at having been mistaken on the subject of procreation, was not disposed to believe that such species had the power of intercommunication of ideas. With the Sirian he enjoyed the gift of tongues; he had not heard our atoms speak at all, and he assumed they did not speak. Besides, how should such diminutive creatures have organs of speech, and what should they have to talk about? In order to speak, one must think, or very nearly; but if they thought, they would have the equivalent of a soul; attribute to this species the equivalent of a soul? It seemed absurd. “But,” said the Sirian, “you thought just now they were making love to

251M ICROMÉGAS each other; do you think it possible to make love without thinking and without uttering a word, or at least without making one’s self understood? Do you suppose, further, that it is more difficult to produce an argument than an infant? To me they both appear great mysteries.” “I dare no longer either believe or disbelieve,” said the dwarf. “I cease to have an opinion. We must try to examine these insects: we will argue afterward.” “That is well said,” returned Micromégas, and pulled out a pair of scissors with which he cut his nails. With a paring from his thumbnail he made on the spot a kind of huge speaking-trumpet, like an immense funnel, and placed the small end in his ear. The outer edge of the funnel surrounded the ship and all the crew. The faintest sound entered the circular fibers of the nail, with result that thanks to his ingenuity the philosopher of the world above heard perfectly the buzzing of our insects in this world below. In a very short time he managed to distinguish words, and finally to understand French. As did the dwarf, although with greater difficulty. The travelers’ astonishment increased with each moment. They heard maggots talking tolerably good sense, and this trick of nature seemed inexplicable to them. You can well believe that the Sirian and his dwarf burned with impatience to engage the atoms in conversation. The dwarf feared that the thunder of his voice, and particularly of the voice of Micromégas, might deafen the maggots without their understanding that it was a voice. The strength must be reduced. They put in their mouths a sort of small toothpick of which the very fine end reached close to the ship. The Sirian held the dwarf on his knees and the ship with its crew on one of his nails. He bent his head, and spoke in a low voice. At last, with the help of all these precautions and many others beside, he started to speak; and this is what he said: “Invisible insects who the Creator has pleased should be born in this abyss of the infinitely little, I thank Him for having deigned to let me discover secrets which seemed unfathomable. At my court, maybe, they would not condescend to look at you, but I despise no one, and I offer you my protection.” If ever anyone was astonished, it was the people who heard these words. They could not imagine whence they came. The ship’s chaplain repeated the prayers for casting out devils, the sailors cursed, and the philosophers on board propounded hypotheses; but no matter what hypothesis they propounded they could never guess who was speaking to them. The dwarf from Saturn, whose voice was softer than Micro-

252 Voltaire mégas’, then told them briefly with what sort of people they had to deal. He related the journey from Saturn, made them aware who Mr. Micromégas was, and, after sympathizing with them for being so small, asked if they had always enjoyed this miserable state so close to complete non-existence, what their function was in a world which appeared to belong to whales, if they were happy, if they multiplied, if they had souls, and a hundred other questions of a like nature. One reasoner in the party, bolder than the others, and shocked that anyone should doubt he had a soul, sighted his interlocutor through the eyelet-hole on a quadrant, made two observations, and at the third said: “You assume, sir, that because you measure a thousand fathoms from head to foot you are a—” “A thousand fathoms!” cried the dwarf. “Holy Heaven! How can he know my height? A thousand fathoms! he is not an inch out! What, this atom has measured me! He is a mathematician, he knows my height! And I who cannot see him at all save through a magnifying glass, I do not yet know his!” “Yes, I have measured you,” said the physicist, “and what is more I shall measure your big friend too.” The suggestion was accepted, and His Excellency stretched himself out at full length: which was necessary because, if he had remained standing, his head would have been too far above the clouds. Our philosophers planted in him a big tree on a spot which Dr. Swift would specify, but which I refrain from calling by name out of respect for the ladies. Then, by forming a network of triangles they came to the conclusion that what they saw was in reality a young man one hundred and twenty thousand royal feet long. At this point Micromégas spoke. “I see more than ever,” he said, “that nothing must be judged by its apparent size. O God, who has given intelligence to beings which appear so contemptible, the infinitely small costs Thee as little effort as the infinitely great, and if there can possibly be creatures smaller than these, they may still have souls superior to those of the splendid animals I have seen in the sky, whose foot alone would cover the world to which I have come.” One of the philosophers answered him that he might indeed believe that there were intelligent creatures smaller than man, and he related for his benefit not the fables which Virgil told about the bees but all that Swammerdam discovered and Réaumur dissected. He made him under- stand, in short, that there are animals which to the bee are what the bee is to man, what the Sirian himself was to the prodigious animals he had

253M ICROMÉGAS mentioned, and what these animals are to other things compared with which they seem but atoms. By degrees the conversation became interesting, and Micromégas spoke as follows: CHAPTER VII Conversation with the Men “O intelligent atoms in whom the Eternal Being has been pleased to manifest His dexterity and His might, the joys you taste on your globe are doubtless very pure, for as you are so immaterial, and seem to be all spirit, your lives must be passed in Love and in Thought: that, indeed, is the true life of spirits. Nowhere yet have I found real happiness, but that you have it here I cannot doubt.” At these words all the philosophers shook their heads and one of them, more frank than the rest, candidly admitted that, apart from a small number of people who were little esteemed, the rest of the inhabitants of the world were a crowd of madmen, miscreants, and unfortunates. “If evil be a property of matter,” he said, “we have more matter than is necessary for the doing of much evil, and too much spirit if evil be a property of the spirit. Do you realize, for instance, that at this moment there are a hundred thousand madmen of our species wearing hats killing, or being killed by, a hundred thousand other animals wearing turbans, and that over almost all the face of the earth this has been the custom from time immemorial?” The Sirian shuddered and asked what could be the ground for these horrible quarrels between such puny beasts. “The matter at issue,” replied the philosopher, “is some mud heap as large as your heel. It is not that any single man of all these millions who slaughter each other claims one straw on the mud heap. The point is— shall the mud heap belong to a certain man called ‘Sultan’ or to another called, I know not why, ‘Caesar’? Neither of them has ever seen or will ever see the little bit of land in dispute, and barely one of these animals which slaughter each other has ever seen the animal for which he is slaughtered.” “Wretch!” cried the Sirian indignantly. “Such a riot of mad fury is inconceivable! I am tempted to take three steps and with three blows of my foot to crush out of existence this anthill of absurd cutthroats.” “Do not trouble,” answered the philosopher; “they wreak their own

254 Voltaire ruin. Know that after ten years not a hundredth part of these miscreants is ever left. Know that, even when they have not drawn the sword, hunger, exhaustion, or debauchery carries them nearly all off. Besides, it is not they who should be punished, but the stay-at-home barbarians who, after a good meal, order from their remote closets the massacre of a million men, and then have solemn prayers of gratitude for the event offered up to God.” The traveler was stirred with pity for the little human race, in which he discovered such amazing contrasts. “Since you are of the small number of the wise,” he said to these gentlemen, “and that apparently you do not kill people for money, tell me, I pray, how you employ yourselves.” “We dissect flies,” answered the philosopher, “we measure lines, we gather mathematical data. We agree on the two or three points we understand, and we argue about the two or three thousand we do not.” Immediately a fancy took the Sirian and the Saturnian to question these thinking atoms in order to find out on what things they were agreed. “What do you reckon to be the distance,” asked the latter, “between the Dog-star and Gemini?” “Thirty-two and a half degrees,” they all replied in concert. “And from here to the moon?” “In round numbers, sixty times the radius of the earth.” “What does your air weigh?” he continued, thinking to catch them. He did not succeed, however, for they all told him that the air weighs about nine hundred times less than an equal volume of the lightest water, and nineteen thousand times less than ducat gold. The little dwarf from Saturn, astounded at their replies, was tempted to take for sorcerers these same people to whom a quarter of an hour before he had refused a soul. Finally, Micromégas put in a word. “Since you are so well acquainted with what is outside you,” he said, “you doubtless know still better what is inside. Tell me what your soul is, and how you form your ideas.” As before, the philosophers replied in concert—but each held a different opinion. The oldest quoted Aristotle, another pronounced the name of Descartes, a third the name of Malebranche, a fourth that of Leibnitz, a fifth that of Locke. An aged Peripatetic said loudly and confidently: “‘The soul is an entelechy and a proof of its power to be what it is.’ That is what Aristotle states expressly, page 653 of the Louvre edition. Entelechia esti [It is an entelechy; i.e., the final stage in development from potentiality to actuality.], etc.” “I do not understand Greek too well,” remarked the giant.

255M ICROMÉGAS “No more do I,” said the philosophical maggot. “Why then,” asked the Sirian, “do you quote Aristotle in Greek?” “Because,” replied the scholar, “one should always quote what one does not comprehend at all in the language one understands least.” It was the Cartesian’s turn. “The soul,” he said, “is a pure spirit which has received in its mother’s womb all metaphysical ideas and which, on leaving it, has to go to school to learn over again what it knew so well, and will never know again.” “It was not worth while,” observed the animal eight leagues long, “for your soul to be so wise in your mother’s womb if it had to become so ignorant by the time your chin could grow a beard. But what do you mean by a spirit?” “What a question!” said the man of abstractions. “I have not the remotest idea. A spirit, it is said, is not matter.” “But do you know at least what matter is?” “Very well,” replied the man. “For example, this stone is gray, has a certain shape and three dimensions, is heavy and divisible.” “Well,” said the Sirian, “this thing which appears to you to be divisible, heavy and gray, will you kindly tell me what it is? You perceive some of its attributes, but do you know what it is fundamentally?” “No,” answered the other. “Then you do not know at all what matter is.” Mr. Micromégas then asked another of the wise men he held on his thumb what his soul was, and what it did. “Nothing at all,” replied the disciple of Malebranche. “God does everything for me. I see everything in Him, I do everything in Him. It is He who does everything without my interfering.” “It would be as well worth while not to exist,” said the sage from Sirius. “And you, my friend,” he continued to a Leibnitzian who was there, “what is your soul?” “My soul,” answered the Leibnitzian, “is a hand which points the hours while my body ticks: or, if you prefer it, it is my soul which ticks while my body points the hour: or again, my soul is the mirror of the universe, and my body is the frame of the mirror. That is quite clear.” A humble partisan of Locke stood nearby, and when he was spoken to at last, replied: “I do not know how I think, but I do know that I have never thought save by virtue of my senses. That there are immaterial and intelligent beings I do not doubt: but that it is impossible for God to endow matter with mind I doubt very much. I hold the power of God in veneration: I am not free to set bounds to it: I predicate nothing: I am

256 Voltaire content to believe that more things are possible than we think.” The animal from Sirius smiled. He did not think the last speaker the least wise. The dwarf from Saturn would have embraced the follower of Locke had it not been for the difference in their proportions. But, unluckily, there was present a minute animalcule in a clerical hat who interrupted the other animalcule philosophers. He said he understood the whole mystery; that the explanation was to be found in the Summa of St. Thomas. He looked the two celestial inhabitants up and down, and asserted that their persons, worlds, suns, and stars were created solely for man. At this speech the two travelers fell on top of each other, suffocating with that inextinguishable laughter which, according to Homer, is the lot of the gods. Their shoulders and stomachs heaved, and amid these convulsions the ship which the Sirian held on his thumb fell into one of the Saturnian’s trousers pockets. These two good people tried to find it for a long time and, having recovered it at last, set everything very nicely in order. The Sirian picked the maggots up again and spoke to them once more with much kindness, although at the bottom of his heart he was rather angry that such infinitely small creatures should be possessed of an arrogance almost infinitely great. He promised to prepare for them a fine volume of philosophy, written very small so that they might be able to read it, and that in the volume they would find an explanation for everything. And to be sure, he did give them this book before he left them. They took it to Paris to the Academy of Science: but when the aged secretary opened it he found nothing but blank pages. “Ah!” said he. “I thought as much.” Translated by H. I. Woolf.

257 Oscar Wilde 1854–1900 Oscar Wilde was born in Dublin, on October 16, 1854. His fatherwas a distinguished eye-and-ear specialist, and his godfather the King of Sweden, for whom Wilde may have been named. He took the gold medal for Greek at Trinity College, and a double first at Oxford. Like Matthew Arnold, he was given the Newdigate Prize for poetry. Even before he left Oxford, he had taken care to become known as the apostle of “art for art’s sake,” a doctrine announced some forty years earlier by Théophile Gautier in the preface to Mademoiselle de Maupin. Wilde was caricatured in Punch and burlesqued in the Gilbert and Sullivan opera Patience. His second book of poems appeared in 1881. The following year he made a twelve-month lecture tour of the United States. Audiences were entertained by his witty and deliberate affectations. The newspapers jeered. He wore a sunflower and velvet knee breeches among the Colorado miners, but earned their respect by drinking the best of them under the table. In Paris, Wilde met Victor Hugo, Edgar Degas the painter, and Émile Zola. Back in London, he married the charming Constance Lloyd in 1884. They had two sons. Wilde became book reviewer for the Pall Mall Gazette and editor of the Woman’s World. In 1888 he published a first book of fairy stories, The Happy Prince and Other Tales (see below). In 1891 came four books in a row: more fairy tales in A House of Pomegranates; Lord Arthur Savile’s Crime and Other Stories; the paradoxical essays in Intentions; and The Picture of Dorian Gray, a novel that became the centerpiece of the nineties movement in literature. A year later the first of his successful plays, the glittering Lady Windermere’s Fan, was produced in London. Equally brilliant openings welcomed A Woman of No Importance in 1893 and An

258 Oscar Wilde Ideal Husband in January, 1895. A month later, The Importance of Being Earnest brought Wilde to the peak of his fame. In April of that year Wilde charged the Marquess of Queensberry with criminal libel. He was acquitted. On the same day Wilde was arrested on morals charges that involved Lord Alfred Douglas, Queensberry’s son. Wilde was sentenced to two years at hard labor. He wrote De Profundis in Reading Gaol. When he was released he took the name of “Sebastian Melmoth” and settled in Berneval, France. There he wrote The Ballad of Reading Gaol. After two years of wandering in Italy, Switzerland, and France, he died in Paris on November 30, 1900. At a distance of more than half a century, we can see clearly now thatWilde was at bottom a religious moralist. Even his cult of art had that secondary sense. This becomes plain if we compare it with Gautier’s original view, or Flaubert’s. Wilde hoped that art would improve people’s lives. He had enlisted in the same crusade as Matthew Arnold. Both were trying to civilize what they regarded as the barbarian middle classes—Arnold by exhorting them, Wilde by startling and amusing them. Even such a delightful little story as The Happy Prince is as much a parable as it is a fairy tale. The Happy Prince is no longer happy, because he has discovered the misfortunes of the world. He is a paradox of the kind Wilde was so fond of: the Happy Prince who weeps. He wears gold from head to foot—the glow of his Christian saintliness. Like a true saint, he gives away his gold and jewels to help the needy. His heart is lead because it is weighted down with the grief of humanity. When we first meet the swallow, he is quite a different sort— practical, worldly, and a great traveler. He is reluctant to play Sancho Panza to the Prince’s saintly Don Quixote. He points out Notes from the artist: “Scenes from some of Wilde’s works flank the figure of the author as he appeared during his lecture tour of the U.S. A small portrait of Wilde as a boy is also included. The style attempts to recapture the ‘wickedness’ of Aubrey Beardsley’s illustrations for the first English edition of Salome (1894).”

260 Oscar Wilde quite reasonably that boys throw stones, that the weather is getting cold, and that he is expected in the south. Indeed, he becomes very eloquent about the wonders of Egypt, where the yellow lions have eyes like green beryls and the red ibis stand in rows along the Nile. But gradually, ignoring his own desires, he becomes more and more dedicated to the Prince’s good works. He is overcome by the experience of religious conversion. He refuses to leave. So he falls dead at the feet of the blind Prince. And what is his death, we ask ourselves, if it is not an act of Christian martyrdom? Wilde tells the story with neat little witty asides, touches of fancy and of genuine imagination, the satiric effectively alternated with the lyrical. Here and there—as, for example, when the Prince’s heart breaks—he barely avoids the sentimental. In that scene he does it with one matter-of-fact, ironic sentence: “It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost.” The mayor perceives that the Prince has lost his splendor of gold and jewels. For an instant we are afraid that he may decide that they have been stolen and begin a search for them. But he orders the statue to be pulled down. “As he is no longer beautiful, he is no longer useful,” says the art professor. This is Wilde at his most para-doxical.

261 The Happy Prince igh above the city, on a tall column, stood the statue of the Happy Prince. He was gilded all over with thin leaves of fine gold, for eyes he had two bright sapphires, and a large red ruby glowed on his sword-hilt. He was very much admired indeed. “He is as beautiful as a weathercock,” remarked one of the town councillors who wished to gain a reputation for having artistic tastes; “only not quite so useful,” he added, fearing lest people should think him unpractical, which he really was not. “Why can’t you be like the Happy Prince?” asked a sensible mother of her little boy who was crying for the moon. “The Happy Prince never dreams of crying for anything.” “I am glad there is some one in the world who is quite happy,” muttered a disappointed man as he gazed at the wonderful statue. “He looks just like an angel,” said the charity children as they came out of the cathedral in their bright scarlet cloaks and their clean white pinafores. “How do you know?” said the Mathematical Master, “you have never seen one.” “Ah! but we have, in our dreams,” answered the children; and the Mathematical Master frowned and looked very severe, for he did not approve of children dreaming. One night there flew over the city a little swallow. His friends had gone away to Egypt six weeks before, but he had stayed behind, for he was in love with the most beautiful reed. He had met her early in the spring as he was flying down the river after a big yellow moth, and had been so attracted by her slender waist that he had stopped to talk to her. “Shall I love you?” said the swallow, who liked to come to the point at once, and the reed made him a low bow. So he flew round and round her,

262 Oscar Wilde touching the water with his wings and making silver ripples. This was his courtship, and it lasted all through the summer. “It is a ridiculous attachment,” twittered the other swallows; “she has no money, and far too many relations”; and, indeed, the river was quite full of reeds. Then, when the autumn came, they all flew away. After they had gone he felt lonely, and began to tire of his lady-love. “She has no conversation,” he said, “and I am afraid that she is a coquette, for she is always flirting with the wind.” And certainly, whenever the wind blew, the reed made the most graceful curtsies. “I admit that she is domestic,” he continued, “but I love travelling, and my wife, consequently, should love travelling also.” “Will you come away with me?” he said finally to her; but the reed shook her head, she was so attached to her home. “You have been trifling with me,” he cried, “I am off to the pyramids. Good-bye!” and he flew away. All day long he flew, and at night-time he arrived at the city. “Where shall I put up?” he said; “I hope the town has made preparations.” Then he saw the statue on the tall column. “I will put up there,” he cried; “it is a fine position with plenty of fresh air.” So he alighted just between the feet of the Happy Prince. “I have a golden bedroom,” he said softly to himself as he looked round, and he prepared to go to sleep; but just as he was putting his head under his wing, a large drop of water fell on him. “What a curious thing!” he cried. “There is not a single cloud in the sky, the stars are quite clear and bright, and yet it is raining. The climate in the north of Europe is really dreadful. The reed used to like the rain, but that was merely her selfishness.” Then another drop fell. “What is the use of a statue if it cannot keep the rain off?” he said; “I must look for a good chimney-pot,” and he determined to fly away. But before he had opened his wings, a third drop fell, and he looked up and saw—ah! what did he see? The eyes of the Happy Prince were filled with tears, and tears were running down his golden cheeks. His face was so beautiful in the moonlight that the little swallow was filled with pity. “Who are you?” he said. “I am the Happy Prince.” “Why are you weeping then?” asked the swallow; “you have quite drenched me.” “When I was alive and had a human heart,” answered the statue, “I

263TH E HAPPY PRI NCE did not know what tears were, for I lived in the Palace of Sans-Souci, where sorrow is not allowed to enter. In the day-time I played with my companions in the garden, and in the evening I led the dance in the Great Hall. Round the garden ran a very lofty wall, but I never cared to ask what lay beyond it, everything about me was so beautiful. My courtiers called me the Happy Prince, and happy indeed I was, if pleasure be happiness. So I lived, and so I died. And now that I am dead they have set me up here so high that I can see all the ugliness and all the misery of my city, and though my heart is made of lead, yet I cannot choose but weep.” “What, is he not solid gold?” said the swallow to himself. He was too polite to make any personal remarks out loud. “Far away,” continued the statue in a low musical voice, “far away in a little street, there is a poor house. One of the windows is open, and through it I can see a woman seated at a table. Her face is thin and worn, and she has coarse red hands, all pricked by the needle, for she is a seamstress. She is embroidering passion-flowers on a satin gown for the loveliest of the Queen’s maids-of-honour to wear at the next Court- ball. In a bed in the corner of the room, her little boy is lying ill. He has a fever, and is asking for oranges. His mother has nothing to give him but river water, so he is crying. Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow, will you not bring her the ruby out of my sword-hilt? My feet are fastened to this pedestal and I cannot move.” “I am waited for in Egypt,” said the swallow. “My friends are flying up and down the Nile and talking to the large lotus-flowers. Soon they will go to sleep in the tomb of the great King. The King is there himself in his painted coffin. He is wrapped in yellow linen and embalmed with spices. Round his neck is a chain of pale green jade, and his hands are like withered leaves.” “Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay with me for one night and be my messenger? The boy is so thirsty, and the mother so sad.” “I don’t think I like boys,” answered the swallow. “Last summer, when I was staying on the river, there were two rude boys, the miller’s sons, who were always throwing stones at me. They never hit me, of course; we swallows fly far too well for that, and besides, I come of a family famous for its agility; but still, it was a mark of disrespect.” But the Happy Prince looked so sad that the little swallow was sorry. “It is very cold here,” he said; “but I will stay with you for one night and be your messenger.”

264 Oscar Wilde “Thank you, little Swallow,” said the Prince. So the swallow picked out the great ruby from the Prince’s sword and flew away with it in his beak over the roofs of the town. He passed by the cathedral tower, where the white marble angels were sculptured. He passed by the palace and heard the sound of dancing. A beautiful girl came out on the balcony with her lover. “How wonderful the stars are,” he said to her, “and how wonderful is the power of love!” “I hope my dress will be ready in time for the State-ball,” she answered; “I have ordered passion-flowers to be embroidered on it; but the seamstresses are so lazy.” He passed over the river and saw the lanterns hanging to the masts of the ships. He passed over the Ghetto and saw the old Jews bargaining with each other and weighing out money in copper scales. At last he came to the poor house and looked in. The boy was tossing feverishly on his bed, and the mother had fallen asleep, she was so tired. In he hopped, and laid the great ruby on the table beside the woman’s thimble. Then he flew gently round the bed, fanning the boy’s forehead with his wings. “How cool I feel,” said the boy, “I must be getting better”; and he sank into a delicious slumber. Then the swallow flew back to the Happy Prince and told him what he had done. “It is curious,” he remarked, “but I feel quite warm now, although it is so cold.” “That is because you have done a good action,” said the Prince. And the little swallow began to think, and then he fell asleep. Thinking always made him sleepy. When day broke, he flew down to the river and had a bath. “What a remarkable phenomenon,” said the professor of ornithology as he was passing over the bridge. “A swallow in winter!” And he wrote a long letter about it to the local newspaper. Every one quoted it, it was full of so many words that they could not understand. “To-night I go to Egypt,” said the swallow, and he was in high spirits at the prospect. He visited all the public monuments and sat a long time on top of the church steeple. Wherever he went the sparrows chirruped and said to each other, “What a distinguished stranger!” so he enjoyed himself very much. When the moon rose, he flew back to the Happy Prince. “Have you any commissions for Egypt?” he cried; “I am just starting.” “Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay with me one night longer?” “I am waited for in Egypt,” answered the swallow. “To-morrow my

265TH E HAPPY PRI NCE friends will fly up to the Second Cataract. The river-horse couches there among the bulrushes, and on a great granite throne sits the god Memnon. All night long he watches the stars, and when the morning star shines, he utters one cry of joy, and then he is silent. At noon the yellow lions come down to the water’s edge to drink. They have eyes like green beryls, and their roar is louder than the roar of the cataract.” “Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “far away across the city I see a young man in a garret. He is leaning over a desk covered with papers, and in a tumbler by his side there is a bunch of withered violets. His hair is brown and crisp, and his lips are red as a pomegranate, and he has large and dreamy eyes. He is trying to finish a play for the director of the theatre, but he is too cold to write any more. There is no fire in the grate, and hunger has made him faint.” “I will wait with you one night longer,” said the swallow, who really had a good heart. “Shall I take him another ruby?” “Alas! I have no ruby now,” said the Prince; “my eyes are all that I have left. They are made of rare sapphires, which were brought out of India a thousand years ago. Pluck out one of them and take it to him. He will sell it to the jeweller, and buy food and firewood, and finish his play.” “Dear Prince,” said the swallow, “I cannot do that”; and he began to weep. “Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command you.” So the swallow plucked out the Prince’s eye and flew away to the student’s garret. It was easy enough to get in, as there was a hole in the roof. Through this he darted, and came into the room. The young man had his head buried in his hands, so he did not hear the flutter of the bird’s wings, and when he looked up, he found the beautiful sapphire lying on the withered violets. “I am beginning to be appreciated,” he cried; “this is from some great admirer. Now I can finish my play,” and he looked quite happy. The next day the swallow flew down to the harbour. He sat on the mast of a large vessel and watched the sailors hauling big chests out of the hold with ropes. “Heave ahoy!” they shouted as each chest came up. “I am going to Egypt!” cried the swallow, but nobody minded, and when the moon rose, he flew back to the Happy Prince. “I am come to bid you good-bye,” he cried. “Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “will you not stay with me one night longer?” “It is winter,” answered the swallow, “and the chill snow will soon be

266 Oscar Wilde here. In Egypt the sun is warm on the green palm-trees, and the crocodiles lie in the mud and look lazily about them. My companions are building a nest in the Temple of Baalbec, and the pink and white doves are watching them and cooing to each other. Dear Prince, I must leave you, but I will never forget you, and next spring I will bring you back two beautiful jewels in place of those you have given away. The ruby shall be redder than a red rose, and the sapphire shall be as blue as the great sea.” “In the square below,” said the Happy Prince, “there stands a little match-girl. She has let her matches fall in the gutter, and they are all spoiled. Her father will beat her if she does not bring home some money, and she is crying. She has no shoes or stockings, and her little head is bare. Pluck out my other eye, and give it to her, and her father will not beat her.” “I will stay with you one night longer,” said the swallow, “but I cannot pluck out your eye. You would be quite blind then.” “Swallow, Swallow, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “do as I command you.” So he plucked out the Prince’s other eye and darted down with it. He swooped past the match-girl and slipped the jewel into the palm of her hand. “What a lovely bit of glass,” cried the little girl; and she ran home, laughing. Then the swallow came back to the Prince. “You are blind now,” he said, “so I will stay with you always.” “No, little Swallow,” said the poor Prince, “you must go away to Egypt.” “I will stay with you always,” said the swallow, and he slept at the Prince’s feet. All the next day he sat on the Prince’s shoulder and told him stories of what he had seen in strange lands. He told him of the red ibis, who stand in long rows on the banks of the Nile and catch gold-fish in their beaks; of the Sphinx, who is as old as the world itself, and lives in the desert, and knows everything; of the merchants, who walk slowly by the side of their camels and carry amber beads in their hands; of the King of the Mountains of the Moon, who is as black as ebony and worships a large crystal; of the great green snake that sleeps in a palm-tree and has twenty priests to feed it with honey-cakes; and of the pygmies, who sail over a big lake on large flat leaves and are always at war with the butterflies. “Dear little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you tell me of marvellous things, but more marvellous than anything is the suffering of men and of women.

267TH E HAPPY PRI NCE There is no mystery so great as misery. Fly over my city, little Swallow, and tell me what you see there.” So the swallow flew over the great city and saw the rich making merry in their beautiful houses, while the beggars were sitting at the gates. He flew into dark lanes and saw the white faces of starving children looking out listlessly at the black streets. Under the archway of a bridge, two little boys were lying in one another’s arms to try and keep themselves warm. “How hungry we are!” they said. “You must not lie here,” shouted the watchman, and they wandered out into the rain. Then he flew back and told the Prince what he had seen. “I am covered with fine gold,” said the Prince, “you must take it off, leaf by leaf, and give it to my poor; the living always think that gold can make them happy.” Leaf after leaf of the fine gold the swallow picked off, till the Happy Prince looked quite dull and grey. Leaf after leaf of the fine gold he brought to the poor, and the children’s faces grew rosier, and they laughed and played games in the street. “We have bread now!” they cried. Then the snow came, and after the snow came the frost. The streets looked as if they were made of silver, they were so bright and glistening; long icicles like crystal daggers hung down from the eaves of the houses, everybody went about in furs; and the little boys wore scarlet caps and skated on the ice. The poor little swallow grew colder and colder, but he would not leave the Prince, he loved him too well. He picked up crumbs outside the baker’s door when the baker was not looking, and tried to keep himself warm by flapping his wings. But at last he knew that he was going to die. He had just strength to fly up to the Prince’s shoulder once more. “Good-bye, dear Prince!” he murmured, “will you let me kiss you hand?” “I am glad that your are going to Egypt at last, little Swallow,” said the Prince, “you have stayed too long here; but you must kiss me on the lips, for I love you.” “It is not to Egypt that I am going,” said the swallow. “I am going to the house of death. Death is the brother of sleep, is he not?” And he kissed the Happy Prince on the lips and fell down dead at his feet. At that moment a curious crack sounded inside the statue, as if something had broken. The fact is that the leaden heart had snapped right in two. It certainly was a dreadfully hard frost. Early the next morning the mayor was walking in the square below in

268 Oscar Wilde company with the town councillors. As they passed the column, he looked up at the statue: “Dear me! how shabby the Happy Prince looks!” he said. “How shabby indeed!” cried the town councillors, who always agreed with the mayor, and they went up to look at it. “The ruby has fallen out of his sword, his eyes are gone, and he is golden no longer,” said the mayor; “in fact, he is little better than a beggar!” “Little better than a beggar,” said the town councillors. “And here is actually a dead bird at his feet!” continued the mayor. “We must really issue a proclamation that birds are not allowed to die here.” And the town clerk made a note of the suggestion. So they pulled down the statue of the Happy Prince. “As he is no longer beautiful, he is no longer useful,” said the art professor at the university. Then they melted the statue in a furnace, and the mayor held a meeting of the corporation to decide what was to be done with the metal. “We must have another statue, of course,” he said, “and it shall be a statue of myself.” “Of myself,” said each of the town councillors, and they quarrelled. When I last heard of them, they were quarrelling still. “What a strange thing!” said the overseer of the workmen at the foundry. “This broken lead heart will not melt in the furnace. We must throw it away.” So they threw it on a dust-heap where the dead swallow was also lying. “Bring me the two most precious things in the city,” said God to one of His Angels; and the Angel brought Him the leaden heart and the dead bird. “You have rightly chosen,” said God, “for in my garden of Paradise this little bird shall sing for evermore, and in my city of gold the Happy Prince shall praise me.”

269 Edgar Allan Poe 1809–1849 Edgar Allan Poe was born in Boston, Massachusetts, January19, 1809. His parents were actors on tour. Both of them died in 1811. Poe’s godfather, a Richmond merchant, sent him to schools in England and Scotland, and later to the University of Virginia. Gambling debts forced him to withdraw. Poe published a first book of poems, Tamerlane, and joined the army. His guardian bought him out and arranged an appointment to West Point. Poe managed to get himself expelled. He went to New York and published his Poems in 1831. By 1835 he was editor of the Southern Literary Messenger and making a name as a critic. He married his cousin, Virginia Clemm, then hardly fourteen. It seems to have been a very tender relationship. Poe was dropped from the Messenger, evidently for drinking—a habit that plagued him all his life. In New York again, he published The Narrative of Arthur Gordon Pym. By 1839 he was an editor on Burton’s Gentleman’s Magazine; there he printed The Fall of the House of Usher, and in its successor, Graham’s, what came to be known as the first detective story, The Murders in the Rue Morgue. His Tales of the Grotesque and Arabesque came out in 1839. He worked for his friend N. P. Willis on the New York Evening Mirror. There, in 1845, The Raven made him famous. He took a cottage at Fordham and wrote chitchat articles for Godey’s Lady’s Book. His wife, Virginia, died in 1847. He lived for a while in Providence, Rhode Island, where he was engaged to the poet Sarah Helen Whitman. This was broken off, but later she wrote a book defending his memory. In the intervals of drinking, he made his way back to Richmond. He was again en- gaged to his boyhood love, Elmira Royster, now widowed. He had

270 Edgar Allan Poe one happy summer. Then he was picked up on the streets of Baltimore and taken to a hospital. His heart failed, and he died on October 7, 1849. A man who does not contribute his quota of grim storiesnowadays,” said Leigh Hunt, a contemporary of Poe, “seems hardly to be free of the republic of letters. He is bound to wear a death’s head as part of his insignia.” Poe gave us more than his share. His stories and poems made him a member of the international community of nineteenth-century Romantics, which included Pushkin and Gogol in Russia; Hoffmann, Schiller, and the brothers Grimm in Germany; Hugo and Mérimée in France; Lamb, De Quincey, and Scott in Great Britain; and Hawthorne and Melville in the United States. We read two of Poe’s famous stories: The Tell-Tale Heart and The Masque of the Red Death. They belong among the most powerful and fascinating in all literature. Though his life may seem to discount it, Poe was a man of intellect first of all. We see it in his essays, The Philosophy of Composition (1846) and The Poetic Principle (1848 and 1850), which may be called the real beginning of American literary criticism. His first approach to a story or poem was intellectual. He conceived it as philosophers conceive an idea. In the light of this fact, we may discover a secret common to nearly all his stories. It is this: he thought of each story as the vehicle of a single overpowering emotion. For this emotion, in each case, he found a symbol—that is, a person, a thing, a place, a pattern of action—that would be and mean that emotion. Only after this did he work out a carefully machined and often theatrical plot to be locked on the symbol. As the critic Georges Poulet has observed, Poe tried to keep the element of chance and the spontaneous out of his stories. Thus they do not give us the feeling of what we call “life.” They resemble the intense helplessness of dreaming. Notes from the artist: “. . . the face of Poe suggests the dark, brooding atmosphere of much of his work; while in the background, the Raven . . . ‘Perched upon a bust of Pallas just above my chamber door— Perched, and sat, and nothing more.’ ”

272 Edgar Allan Poe Let us see how all this applies to The Tell-Tale Heart. Here the central emotion is guilt—guilt of the same kind as that suffered by Raskolnikov in Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment and accompanied by the same impulse to confess. Poe’s narrator kills an old man for no other reason than that he dislikes the old man’s cataracted blue eye. The symbol is the sound of the victim’s heartbeat—real at first, while he lies dying, and later beating louder and louder in the disordered imagination of the murderer until it forces him to shriek out his confession to the police. In The Masque of the Red Death, the controlling emotion is fear of death, its symbol the “Red Death” that announced itself in “scarlet stains” on the body of its victim. Like many of Poe’s other symbols, this one is extremely powerful. It summons up mankind’s ancient fear of epidemics, the plagues of the Middle Ages, perhaps even the plague that ravaged Paris in the author’s time. True to its title, the story itself becomes a Renaissance masque that has the quality of a morality play. No great wealth, it tells us, can escape death; no iron gates can shut it out. Death comes dancing in the midst of every human gaiety.

273 The Tell-Tale Heart rue!—nervous—very, very dreadfully nervous I had been and am; but why will you say that I am mad? The disease had sharpened my senses— not destroyed—not dulled them. Above all was the sense of hearing acute. I heard all things in the heaven and in the earth. I heard many things in hell. How, then, am I mad? Hearken! and observe how healthily—how calmly I can tell you the whole story. It is impossible to say how first the idea entered my brain; but once conceived, it haunted me day and night. Object there was none. Passion there was none. I loved the old man. He had never wronged me. He had never given me insult. For his gold I had no desire. I think it was his eye! yes, it was this! One of his eyes resembled that of a vulture—a pale blue eye, with a film over it. Whenever it fell upon me, my blood ran cold; and so by degrees—very gradually—I made up my mind to take the life of the old man, and thus rid myself of the eye forever. Now this is the point. You fancy me mad. Madmen know nothing. But you should have seen me. You should have seen how wisely I proceeded—with what caution—with what foresight—with what dissimulation I went to work! I was never kinder to the old man than during the whole week before I killed him. And every night, about midnight, I turned the latch of his door and opened it—oh, so gently! And then, when I had made an opening sufficient for my head, I put in a dark lantern, all closed, closed, so that no light shone out, and then I thrust in my head. Oh, you would have laughed to see how cunningly I thrust it in! I moved it slowly—very, very slowly, so that I might not disturb the old man’s sleep. It took me an hour to place my whole head within the opening so far that I could see him as he lay upon his bed. Ha!—would a madman have been so wise as this? And then, when my head was well in the room, I undid the lantern cautiously—oh, so cautiously—cautiously (for the hinges

274 Edgar Allan Poe creaked)—I undid it just so much that a single thin ray fell upon the vulture eye. And this I did for seven long nights—every night just at midnight—but I found the eye always closed; and so it was impossible to do the work; for it was not the old man who vexed me, but his Evil Eye. And every morning, when the day broke, I went boldly into the chamber, and spoke courageously to him, calling him by name in a hearty tone, and inquiring how he had passed the night. So you see he would have been a very profound old man, indeed, to suspect that every night, just at twelve, I looked in upon him while he slept. Upon the eighth night I was more than usually cautious in opening the door. A watch’s minute hand moves more quickly than did mine. Never before that night had I felt the extent of my own powers—of my sagacity. I could scarcely contain my feelings of triumph. To think that there I was, opening the door, little by little, and he not even to dream of my secret deeds or thoughts. I fairly chuckled at the idea; and perhaps he heard me; for he moved on the bed suddenly, as if startled. Now you may think that I drew back—but no. His room was as black as pitch with the thick darkness (for the shutters were close fastened, through fear of robbers), and so I knew that he could not see the opening of the door, and I kept pushing it on steadily, steadily. I had my head in, and was about to open the lantern, when my thumb slipped upon the tin fastening, and the old man sprang up in the bed, crying out—“Who’s there?” I kept quite still and said nothing. For a whole hour I did not move a muscle, and in the meantime I did not hear him lie down. He was still sitting up in the bed listening—just as I have done, night after night, hearkening to the death watches in the wall. Presently I heard a slight groan, and I knew it was the groan of mortal terror. It was not a groan of pain or of grief—oh, no!—it was the low stifled sound that arises from the bottom of the soul when overcharged with awe. I knew the sound well. Many a night, just at midnight, when all the world slept, it has welled up from my own bosom, deepening, with its dreadful echo, the terrors that distracted me. I say I knew it well. I knew what the old man felt, and pitied him, although I chuckled at heart. I knew that he had been lying awake ever since the first slight noise, when he had turned in the bed. His fears had been ever since growing upon him. He had been trying to fancy them causeless, but could not. He had been saying to himself—“It is nothing but the wind in the chimney—it is only a mouse crossing the floor,” or “it is merely a cricket which has made a single chirp.” Yes, he had been trying to comfort himself with these sup-

275TH E TE LL-TALE H EART positions; but he had found all in vain. All in vain; because Death, in approaching him, had stalked with his black shadow before him, and enveloped the victim. And it was the mournful influence of the unperceived shadow that caused him to feel—although he neither saw nor heard—to feel the presence of my head within the room. When I had waited a long time, very patiently, without hearing him lie down, I resolved to open a little—a very, very little crevice in the lantern. So I opened it—you cannot imagine how stealthily, stealthily— until, at length, a single dim ray, like the thread of the spider, shot from out the crevice and full upon the vulture eye. It was open—wide, wide open—and I grew furious as I gazed upon it. I saw it with perfect distinctness—all a dull blue, with a hideous veil over it that chilled the very marrow in my bones; but I could see nothing else of the old man’s face or person: for I had directed the ray as if by instinct, precisely upon the damned spot. And now have I not told you that what you mistake for madness is but overacuteness of the senses?—now, I say, there came to my ears a low, dull, quick sound, such as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I knew that sound well too. It was the beating of the old man’s heart. It increased my fury, as the beating of a drum stimulates the soldier into courage. But even yet I refrained and kept still. I scarcely breathed. I held the lantern motionless. I tried how steadily I could maintain the ray upon the eye. Meantime the hellish tattoo of the heart increased. It grew quicker and quicker, and louder and louder every instant. The old man’s terror must have been extreme! It grew louder, I say, louder every moment!—do you mark me well? I have told you that I am nervous: so I am. And now at the dead hour of the night, amid the dreadful silence of that old house, so strange a noise as this excited me to uncontrollable terror. Yet, for some minutes longer I refrained and stood still. But the beating grew louder, louder! I thought the heart must burst. And now a new anxiety seized me—the sound would be heard by a neighbor! The old man’s hour had come! With a loud yell, I threw open the lantern and leaped into the room. He shrieked once—once only. In an instant I dragged him to the floor, and pulled the heavy bed over him. I then smiled gaily, to find the deed so far done. But, for many minutes, the heart beat on with a muffled sound. This, however, did not vex me; it would not be heard through the wall. At length it ceased. The old man was dead. I removed the bed and examined the corpse. Yes, he was stone, stone dead. I placed my hand upon the heart and held it there many minutes. There

276 Edgar Allan Poe was no pulsation. He was stone dead. His eye would trouble me no more. If still you think me mad, you will think so no longer when I describe the wise precautions I took for the concealment of the body. The night waned, and I worked hastily, but in silence. First of all I dismembered the corpse. I cut off the head and the arms and the legs. I then took up three planks from the flooring of the chamber, and deposited all between the scantlings. I then replaced the boards so cleverly, so cunningly, that no human eye—not even his—could have detected anything wrong. There was nothing to wash out—no stain of any kind—no blood spot whatever. I had been too wary for that. A tub had caught all—ha! ha! When I had made an end to these labors, it was four o’clock—still dark as midnight. As the bell sounded the hour, there came a knocking at the street door. I went down to open it with a light heart—for what had I now to fear? There entered three men, who introduced themselves, with perfect suavity, as officers of the police. A shriek had been heard by a neighbor during the night; suspicion of foul play had been aroused; information had been lodged at the police office, and they (the officers) had been deputed to search the premises. I smiled—for what had I to fear? I bade the gentlemen welcome. The shriek, I said, was my own in a dream. The old man, I mentioned, was absent in the country. I took my visitors all over the house. I bade them search—search well. I led them, at length, to his chamber. I showed them his treasures, secure, undisturbed. In the enthusiasm of my confidence, I brought chairs into the room, and desired them here to rest from their fatigues, while I myself, in the wild audacity of my perfect triumph, placed my own seat upon the very spot beneath which reposed the corpse of the victim. The officers were satisfied. My manner had convinced them. I was singularly at ease. They sat, and while I answered cheerily, they chatted familiar things. But, ere long, I felt myself getting pale and wished them gone. My head ached, and I fancied a ringing in my ears: but still they sat and still chatted. The ringing became more distinct—it continued and became more distinct: I talked more freely to get rid of the feeling: but it continued and gained definitiveness—until, at length, I found that the noise was not within my ears. No doubt I now grew very pale—but I talked more fluently, and with a heightened voice. Yet the sound increased—and what could I do? It was a low, dull, quick sound—much such a sound as a watch makes when enveloped in cotton. I gasped for breath—and yet the officers heard it not.

277TH E TE LL-TALE H EART I talked more quickly—more vehemently; but the noise steadily increased. I arose and argued about trifles, in a high key and with violent gesticulations, but the noise steadily increased. Why would they not be gone? I paced the floor to and fro with heavy strides, as if excited to fury by the observation of the men—but the noise steadily increased. Oh God! what could I do? I foamed—I raved—I swore! I swung the chair upon which I had been sitting, and grated it upon the boards, but the noise arose over all and continually increased. It grew louder—louder—louder! And still the men chatted pleasantly, and smiled. Was it possible they heard not? Almighty God!—no, no! They heard!—they suspected!—they knew!—they were making a mockery of my horror!—this I thought, and this I think. But any thing was better than this agony! Any thing was more tolerable than this derision! I could bear those hypocritical smiles no longer! I felt that I must scream or die!—and now—again!—hark! louder! louder! louder! louder!— “Villains!” I shrieked, “dissemble no more! I admit the deed!—tear up the planks!—here, here!—it is the beating of his hideous heart!”

278 The Masque of the Red Death he “Red Death” had long devastated the country. No pestilence had ever been so fatal, or so hideous. Blood was its Avatar and its seal—the redness and the horror of blood. There were sharp pains, and sudden dizziness, and then profuse bleeding at the pores, with dissolution. The scarlet stains upon the body and especially upon the face of the victim were the pest ban which shut him out from the aid and from the sympathy of his fellow men. And the whole seizure, progress, and termination of the disease were the incidents of half an hour. But the Prince Prospero was happy and dauntless and sagacious. When his dominions were half depopulated, he summoned to his presence a thousand hale and lighthearted friends from among the knights and dames of his court, and with these retired to the deep seclusion of one of his castellated abbeys. This was an extensive and magnificent structure, the creation of the prince’s own eccentric yet august taste. A strong and lofty wall girdled it in. This wall had gates of iron. The courtiers, having entered, brought furnaces and massy hammers and welded the bolts. They resolved to leave means neither of ingress nor egress to the sudden impulses of despair or of frenzy from within. The abbey was amply provisioned. With such precautions the courtiers might bid defiance to contagion. The external world could take care of itself. In the meantime it was folly to grieve, or to think. The prince had provided all the appliances of pleasure. There were buffoons, there were improvisatori, there were ballet dancers, there were musicians, there was Beauty, there was wine. All these and security were within. Without was the “Red Death.” It was toward the close of the fifth or sixth month of his seclusion, and while the pestilence raged most furiously abroad, that the Prince Prospero entertained his thousand friends at a masked ball of the most unusual magnificence.

279TH E MASQU E OF TH E RE D DEATH It was a voluptuous scene, that masquerade. But first let me tell of the rooms in which it was held. There were seven—an imperial suite. In many palaces, however, such suites form a long and straight vista, while the folding doors slide back nearly to the walls on either hand, so that the view of the whole extent is scarcely impeded. Here the case was very different; as might have been expected from the duke’s love of the bizarre. The apartments were so irregularly disposed that the vision embraced but little more than one at a time. There was a sharp turn at every twenty or thirty yards, and at each turn a novel effect. To the right and left, in the middle of each wall, a tall and narrow Gothic window looked out upon a closed corridor which pursued the windings of the suite. These windows were of stained glass whose color varied in accordance with the prevailing hue of the decorations of the chamber into which it opened. That at the eastern extremity was hung, for example, in blue—and vividly blue were its windows. The second chamber was purple in its ornaments and tapestries, and here the panes were purple. The third was green throughout, and so were the casements. The fourth was furnished and lighted with orange—the fifth with white—the sixth with violet. The seventh apartment was closely shrouded in black velvet tapestries that hung all over the ceiling and down the walls, falling in heavy folds upon a carpet of the same material and hue. But in this chamber only, the color of the windows failed to correspond with the decorations. The panes here were scarlet—a deep blood color. Now in no one of the seven apartments was there any lamp or candelabrum amid the profusion of golden ornaments that lay scattered to and fro or depended from the roof. There was no light of any kind emanating from lamp or candle within the suite of chambers. But in the corridors that followed the suite there stood, opposite to each window, a heavy tripod, bearing a brazier of fire, that projected its rays through the tinted glass and so glaringly illumined the room. And thus were produced a multitude of gaudy and fantastic appearances. But in the western or black chamber the effect of the firelight that streamed upon the dark hangings through the blood-tinted panes was ghastly in the extreme, and produced so wild a look upon the countenances of those who entered that there were few of the company bold enough to set foot within its precincts at all. It was in this apartment, also, that there stood against the western wall a gigantic clock of ebony. Its pendulum swung to and fro with a dull, heavy, monotonous clang; and when the minute hand made the circuit of the face, and the hour was to be stricken, there came from the brazen lungs of the clock a sound which was clear and loud and deep

280 Edgar Allan Poe and exceedingly musical, but of so peculiar a note and emphasis that, at each lapse of an hour, the musicians of the orchestra were constrained to pause, momentarily, in their performance, to hearken to the sound; and thus the waltzers perforce ceased their evolutions; and there was a brief disconcert of the whole gay company; and, while the chimes of the clock yet rang, it was observed that the giddiest grew pale, and the more aged and sedate passed their hands over their brows as if in confused reverie or meditation. But when the echoes had fully ceased, a light laughter at once pervaded the assembly; the musicians looked at each other and smiled as if at their own nervousness and folly, and made whispering vows, each to the other, that the next chiming of the clock should produce in them no similar emotion; and then, after the lapse of sixty minutes (which embrace three thousand and six hundred seconds of the Time that flies), there came yet another chiming of the clock, and then were the same disconcert and tremulousness and meditation as before. But, in spite of these things, it was a gay and magnificent revel. The tastes of the duke were peculiar. He had a fine eye for colors and effects. He disregarded the decora of mere fashion. His plans were bold and fiery, and his conceptions glowed with barbaric luster. There are some who would have thought him mad. His followers felt that he was not. It was necessary to hear and see and touch him to be sure that he was not. He had directed, in great part, the movable embellishments of the seven chambers upon occasion of this great fete; and it was his own guiding taste which had given character to the masqueraders. Be sure they were grotesque. There were much glare and glitter and piquancy and phantasm—much of what has been since seen in Hernani. There were arabesque figures with unsuited limbs and appointments. There were delirious fancies such as the madman fashions. There was much of the beautiful, much of the wanton, much of the bizarre, something of the terrible, and not a little of that which might have excited disgust. To and fro in the seven chambers there stalked, in fact, a multitude of dreams. And these—the dreams—writhed in and about, taking hue from the rooms, and causing the wild music of the orchestra to seem as the echo of their steps. And, anon, there strikes the ebony clock which stands in the hall of the velvet. And then, for a moment, all is still, and all is silent save the voice of the clock. The dreams are stiff frozen as they stand. But the echoes of the chime die away—they have endured but an instant—and a light, half-subdued laughter floats after them as they depart. And now again the music swells, and the dreams live, and writhe to

281TH E MASQU E OF TH E RE D DEATH and fro more merrily than ever, taking hue from the many tinted windows through which stream the rays from the tripods. But to the chamber which lies most westwardly of the seven there are now none of the maskers who venture; for the night is waning away; and there flows a ruddier light through the blood-colored panes; and the blackness of the sable drapery appalls; and to him whose foot falls upon the sable carpet, there comes from the near clock of ebony a muffled peal more solemnly emphatic than any which reaches their ears who indulge in the more remote gaieties of the other apartments. But these other apartments were densely crowded, and in them beat feverishly the heart of life. And the revel went whirlingly on, until at length there commenced the sounding of midnight upon the clock. And then the music ceased, as I have told; and the evolutions of the waltzers were quieted; and there was an uneasy cessation of all things as before. But now there were twelve strokes to be sounded by the bell of the clock; and thus it happened, perhaps, that more of thought crept, with more of time, into the meditations of the thoughtful among those who reveled. And thus too it happened, perhaps, that before the last echoes of the last chime had utterly sunk into silence, there were many individuals in the crowd who had found leisure to become aware of the presence of a masked figure which had arrested the attention of no single individual before. And the rumor of this new presence having spread itself whisperingly around, there arose at length from the whole company a buzz, or murmur, expressive of disapprobation and surprise—then, finally, of terror, of horror, and of disgust. In an assembly of phantasms such as I have painted, it may well be supposed that no ordinary appearance could have excited such sensation. In truth the masquerade license of the night was nearly unlimited; but the figure in question had out-Heroded Herod, and gone beyond the bounds of even the prince’s indefinite decorum. There are chords in the hearts of the most reckless which cannot be touched without emotion. Even with the utterly lost, to whom life and death are equally jests, there are matters of which no jest can be made. The whole company, indeed, seemed now deeply to feel that in the costume and bearing of the stranger neither wit nor propriety existed. The figure was tall and gaunt, and shrouded from head to foot in the habiliments of the grave. The mask which concealed the visage was made so nearly to resemble the countenance of a stiffened corpse that the closest scrutiny must have had difficulty in detecting the cheat. And yet all this might have been en- dured, if not approved, by the mad revelers around. But the mummer had

282 Edgar Allan Poe gone so far as to assume the type of the Red Death. His vesture was dabbled in blood—and his broad brow, with all the features of the face, was besprinkled with the scarlet horror. When the eyes of Prince Prospero fell upon this spectral image (which, with a slow and solemn movement, as if more fully to sustain its role, stalked to and fro among the waltzers) he was seen to be convulsed, in the first moment with a strong shudder either of terror or distaste; but, in the next, his brow reddened with rage. “Who dares”—he demanded hoarsely of the courtiers who stood near him—”who dares insult us with this blasphemous mockery? Seize him and unmask him—that we may know whom we have to hang, at sunrise, from the battlements!” It was in the eastern or blue chamber in which stood the Prince Prospero as he uttered these words. They rang throughout the seven rooms loudly and clearly, for the prince was a bold and robust man, and the music had become hushed at the waving of his hand. It was in the blue room where stood the prince, with a group of pale courtiers by his side. At first, as he spoke, there was a slight rushing movement of this group in the direction of the intruder, who, at the moment was also near at hand, and now, with deliberate and stately step, made closer approach to the speaker. But from a certain nameless awe with which the mad assumptions of the mummer had inspired the whole party, there were found none who put forth hand to seize him; so that, unimpeded, he passed within a yard of the prince’s person; and, while the vast assembly, as if with one impulse, shrank from the centers of the rooms to the walls, he made his way uninterruptedly, but with the same solemn and measured step which had distinguished him from the first, through the blue chamber to the purple—through the purple to the green—through the green to the orange—through this again to the white—and even thence to the violet, ere a decided movement had been made to arrest him. It was then, however, that the Prince Prospero, maddening with rage and the shame of his own momentary cowardice, rushed hurriedly through the six chambers, while none followed him on account of a deadly terror that had seized upon all. He bore aloft a drawn dagger, and had approached, in rapid impetuosity, to within three or four feet of the retreating figure, when the latter, having attained the extremity of the velvet apartment turned suddenly and confronted his pursuer. There was a sharp cry—and the dagger dropped gleaming upon the sable carpet, upon which, instantly afterward, fell prostrate in death the Prince Prospero. Then, summoning the wild courage of despair, a throng of the

283TH E MASQU E OF TH E RE D DEATH revelers at once threw themselves into the black apartment, and, seizing the mummer whose tall figure stood erect and motionless within the shadow of the ebony clock, gasped in unutterable horror at finding the grave cerements and corpselike mask, which they handled with so violent a rudeness, untenanted by any tangible form. And now was acknowledged the presence of the Red Death. He had come like a thief in the night. And one by one dropped the revelers in the blood-bedewed halls of their revel, and died each in the despairing posture of his fall. And the life of the ebony clock went out with that of the last of the gay. And the flames of the tripods expired. And Darkness and Decay and the Red Death held illimitable dominion over all.

284 Robert Louis Stevenson 1850–1894 Robert Louis Stevenson was born in Edinburgh, November 13,1850. At sixteen he entered Edinburgh University. He was expected to follow the family profession, lighthouse engineering. He compromised on the law. Like Scott, he was admitted to the bar. But he trained himself for literature from boyhood on. From the first his health was delicate. The evidence suggests that his ailment was not tuberculosis but probably a case of fibrinous bronchitis that involved frequent and dangerous hemorrhages. Trips to the Continent gave him materials for An Inland Voyage and Travels with a Donkey in the Cevennes. At Fontainebleau in 1876 he met Fanny Vandegrift Osbourne, an American woman separated from her husband. When she went back to California two years later, Stevenson followed and, after a divorce, married her. Across the Plains and The Silverado Squatters describe that episode. In 1880 the Stevensons went to Scotland. There were various pilgrimages, always in search of a kinder climate, to Davos in Switzerland, the Scottish Highlands, Provence, and Bournemouth in England. In the 1880’s, despite many illnesses, he wrote the immortal Treasure Island, and also The Black Arrow, Prince Otto, A Child’s Garden of Verses, and Kidnapped. The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, published in 1886, made him a broadly popular writer for the first time. Notes from the artist: “. . . some of the rough-and-ready characters of Stevenson’s novels, dominated by Long John Silver of Treasure Island, surround the author. ‘Smout’ was Stevenson’s nickname as a child.”

286 Robert Louis Stevenson A year later the Stevensons left Europe for good. After a stay at Saranac in New York State, they returned to California and chartered the schooner yacht Casco, out of San Francisco, for a cruise to the Marquesas, the Paumotus, Tahiti, and Hawaii. At Waikiki, Stevenson finished The Master of Ballantrae, published in 1889. He visited the leper colony on Molokai and wrote a fiery defense of Father Damien, the lepers’ priest. In 1889 a second trip, aboard the copra schooner Equator, took him to the Gilbert Islands and Samoa. There were later voyages to Sydney and to the other islands. The Stevensons settled in Samoa. He became what he would have called a bonnet laird and the Samoans called a matai—that is, “a small landed proprietor.” He was given the island name of Tusitala (Storyteller). Here he wrote In the South Seas, still one of the best books about that region; David Balfour, The Ebb-Tide, and the unfinished Weir of Hermiston. He died of a cerebral hemorrhage on December 3, 1894. J. B. Priestley describes a novel about a man who is “both a murdererand a bewildered innocent, divided between extreme evil and goodness.” The novel is Dickens’ last book, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, but it might just as well have been Stevenson’s The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde, written some fifteen years later. Stevenson may well have been amused at the number of interpretations the critics found for his story. It was evidently a mirror for every mind. Let us see how many aspects we can discover in it. (1) It is a Victorian thriller, and a good one. It can be read—very pleasurably too—on that level alone. It belongs high up in the Victorian mystery tradition of Wilkie Collins and the later Dickens, who learned from Collins. It is melodrama, but melodrama that expands into other meanings. The anarchic violence of the beast- man Hyde is played off against what seemed the immovable stability of upper middle-class London. And what artful storytelling it is! Centripetal in structure, it coils in on the center until at last we are admitted to Dr. Jekyll’s laboratory, the birthplace of the mystery. Even then, in Jekyll’s statement, we are allowed one final intimacy. We learn from his own words what he did and how it felt. (2) Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is also psychological melodrama. We know that Stevenson had been much impressed by Dostoevsky’s Crime and Punishment. He had been reading French and English

287Robert Louis Stevenson psychiatric literature. The idea of split personality—that is, of the individual who seems to comprise two or more fairly distinct personalities—must have struck him as a godsend. He saw what dramatic use it could be put to in literature. But he was careful to make it doubly plausible by introducing the idea of a drug that would bring about the change from one personality to another. Science fiction (and Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde is that, among other things) has often predicted new turns in science. Thus we now have real drugs capable of producing something like the same effect as Dr. Jekyll’s imaginary potion. But Stevenson did not invent the figure we have come to call the Mad Scientist. He is at least as old as the medieval alchemists or Dr. Frankenstein. He appears again in Hawthorne’s Rappaccini’s Daughter.1 (3) Like Pilgrim’s Progress, Stevenson’s tale is an allegory about the moral nature of man. Or rather, the moral nature of Western man. It revolves on the paired and opposed ideas of good and evil, respectively and boldly symbolized in Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde. But Jekyll’s nature contains both elements. Hyde is purely evil. Perhaps we might be more convinced of this if Stevenson had persuaded us by suggestion, as his friend Henry James did in The Turn of the Screw. Hyde’s explosive brutality creates the effect of mental illness rather than calculated evil. Even so, he is frightening enough. 1See Vol. 3, pp. 128–152, in this set.

288 The Strange Case of Dr. Jekyll and Mr. Hyde STORY OF TH E DOOR r. Utterson the lawyer was a man of a rugged countenance, that was never lighted by a smile; cold, scanty, and embarrassed in discourse; backward in sentiment; lean, long, dusty, dreary, and yet somehow lovable. At friendly meetings, and when the wine was to his taste, something eminently human beaconed from his eye; something indeed which never found its way into his talk, but which spoke not only in these silent symbols of the after- dinner face, but more often and loudly in the acts of his life. He was austere with himself; drank gin when he was alone, to mortify a taste for vintages; and though he enjoyed the theatre, had not crossed the doors of one for twenty years. But he had an approved tolerance for others; sometimes wondering, almost with envy, at the high pressure of spirits involved in their misdeeds; and in any extremity inclined to help rather than to reprove. “I incline to Cain’s heresy,” he used to say quaintly: “I let my brother go to the devil in his own way.” In this character, it was frequently his fortune to be the last reputable acquaintance and the last good influence in the lives of down- going men. And to such as these, so long as they came about his chambers, he never marked a shade of change in his demeanour. No doubt the feat was easy to Mr. Utterson; for he was undemonstra- tive at the best, and even his friendship seemed to be founded in a similar catholicity of good nature. It is the mark of a modest man to accept his friendly circle ready-made from the hands of opportunity; and that was the lawyer’s way. His friends were those of his own blood or those whom he had known the longest; his affections, like ivy, were the growth of time, they implied no aptness in the object. Hence, no doubt,

289TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE the bond that united him to Mr. Richard Enfield, his distant kinsman, the well-known man about town. It was a nut to crack for many, what these two could see in each other, or what subject they could find in common. It was reported by those who encountered them in their Sunday walks, that they said nothing, looked singularly dull, and would hail with obvious relief the appearance of a friend. For all that, the two men put the greatest store by these excursions, counted them the chief jewel of each week, and not only set aside occasions of pleasure, but even resisted the calls of business, that they might enjoy them uninterrupted. It chanced on one of these rambles that their way led them down a by- street in a busy quarter of London. The street was small and what is called quiet, but it drove a thriving trade on the week days. The inhabitants were all doing well, it seemed, and all emulously hoping to do better still, and laying out the surplus of their gains in coquetry; so that the shop fronts stood along that thoroughfare with an air of invitation, like rows of smiling saleswomen. Even on Sunday, when it veiled its more florid charms and lay comparatively empty of passage, the street shone out in contrast to its dingy neighbourhood, like a fire in a forest; and with its freshly painted shutters, well-polished brasses, and general cleanliness and gaiety of note, instantly caught and pleased the eye of the passenger. Two doors from one corner, on the left hand going east, the line was broken by the entry of a court; and just at that point, a certain sinister block of building thrust forward its gable on the street. It was two storys high; showed no window, nothing but a door on the lower story and a blind forehead of discoloured wall on the upper; and bore in every feature the marks of prolonged and sordid negligence. The door, which was equipped with neither bell nor knocker, was blistered and distained. Tramps slouched into the recess and struck matches on the panels; children kept shop upon the steps; the schoolboy had tried his knife on the moldings; and for close on a generation, no one had appeared to drive away these random visitors or to repair their ravages. Mr. Enfield and the lawyer were on the other side of the by-street; but when they came abreast of the entry, the former lifted up his cane and pointed. “Did you ever remark that door?” he asked; and when his companion had replied in the affirmative, “It is connected in my mind,” added he, “with a very odd story.” “Indeed?” said Mr. Utterson, with a slight change of voice, “and what was that?”

290 Robert Louis Stevenson “Well, it was this way,” returned Mr. Enfield: “I was coming home from some place at the end of the world, about three o’clock of a black winter morning, and my way lay through a part of town where there was literally nothing to be seen but lamps. Street after street, and all the folks asleep—street after street, all lighted up as if for a procession and all as empty as a church—till at last I got into that state of mind when a man listens and listens and begins to long for the sight of a policeman. All at once, I saw two figures: one a little man who was stumping along eastward at a good walk, and the other a girl of maybe eight or ten who was running as hard as she was able down a cross street. Well, sir, the two ran into one another naturally enough at the corner; and then came the horrible part of the thing; for the man trampled calmly over the child’s body and left her screaming on the ground. It sounds nothing to hear, but it was hellish to see. It wasn’t like a man; it was like some damned Juggernaut. I gave a view halloa, took to my heels, collared my gentleman, and brought him back to where there was already quite a group about the screaming child. He was perfectly cool and made no resistance, but gave me one look, so ugly that it brought out the sweat on me like running. The people who had turned out were the girl’s own family; and pretty soon, the doctor, for whom she had been sent, put in his appearance. Well, the child was not much the worse, more frightened, according to the Sawbones; and there you might have supposed would be an end to it. But there was one curious circumstance. I had taken a loathing to my gentleman at first sight. So had the child’s family, which was only natural. But the doctor’s case was what struck me. He was the usual cut-and-dry apothecary, of no particular age and colour, with a strong Edinburgh accent, and about as emotional as a bagpipe. Well, sir, he was like the rest of us; every time he looked at my prisoner, I saw that Sawbones turn sick and white with the desire to kill him. I knew what was in his mind, just as he knew what was in mine; and killing being out of the question, we did the next best. We told the man we could and would make such a scandal out of this, as should make his name stink from one end of London to the other. If he had any friends or any credit, we undertook that he should lose them. And all the time, as we were pitching it in red hot, we were keeping the women off him as best we could, for they were as wild as harpies. I never saw a circle of such hateful faces; and there was the man in the middle, with a kind of black, sneering coolness—frightened too, I could see that—but carrying it off, sir, really like Satan. ‘If you choose to make capital out of this accident,’ said he, ‘I am naturally help- less. No gentleman but wishes to avoid a scene,’ says he. ‘Name your

291TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE figure.’ Well, we screwed him up to a hundred pounds for the child’s family; he would have clearly liked to stick out; but there was something about the lot of us that meant mischief, and at last he struck. The next thing was to get the money; and where do you think he carried us but to that place with the door?—whipped out a key, went in, and presently came back with the matter of ten pounds in gold and a cheque for the balance on Coutts’s, drawn payable to bearer and signed with a name that I can’t mention, though it’s one of the points of my story, but it was a name at least very well known and often printed. The figure was stiff; but the signature was good for more than that, if it was only genuine. I took the liberty of pointing out to my gentleman that the whole business looked apocryphal, and that a man does not, in real life, walk into a cellar door at four in the morning and come out of it with another man’s cheque for close upon a hundred pounds. But he was quite easy and sneering. ‘Set your mind at rest,’ says he, ‘I will stay with you till the banks open and cash the cheque myself.’ So we all set off, the doctor, and the child’s father, and our friend and myself, and passed the rest of the night in my chambers; and next day, when we had breakfasted, went in a body to the bank. I gave in the cheque myself, and said I had every reason to believe it was a forgery. Not a bit of it. The cheque was genuine.” “Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson. “I see you feel as I do,” said Mr. Enfield. “Yes, it’s a bad story. For my man was a fellow that nobody could have to do with, a really damnable man; and the person that drew the cheque is the very pink of the proprieties, celebrated too, and (what makes it worse) one of your fellows who do what they call good. Black mail, I suppose; an honest man paying through the nose for some of the capers of his youth. Black Mail House is what I call that place with the door, in consequence. Though even that, you know, is far from explaining all,” he added, and with the words fell into a vein of musing. From this he was recalled by Mr. Utterson asking rather suddenly: “And you don’t know if the drawer of the cheque lives there?” “A likely place, isn’t it?” returned Mr. Enfield. “But I happen to have noticed his address; he lives in some square or other.” “And you never asked about the—place with the door?” said Mr. Ut- terson. “No, sir: I had a delicacy,” was the reply. “I feel very strongly about putting questions; it partakes too much of the style of the day of judg- ment. You start a question, and it’s like starting a stone. You sit quietly

292 Robert Louis Stevenson on the top of a hill; and away the stone goes, starting others; and presently some bland old bird (the last you would have thought of ) is knocked on the head in his own back garden and the family have to change their name. No, sir, I make it a rule of mine: the more it looks like Queer Street, the less I ask.” “A very good rule, too,” said the lawyer. “But I have studied the place for myself,” continued Mr. Enfield. “It seems scarcely a house. There is no other door and nobody goes in or out of that one but, once in a great while, the gentleman of my adventure. There are three windows looking on the court on the first floor; none below; the windows are always shut, but they’re clean. And then there is a chimney which is generally smoking, so somebody must live there. And yet it’s not so sure; for the buildings are so packed together about that court, that it’s hard to say where one ends and another begins.” The pair walked on again for awhile in silence; and then “Enfield,” said Mr. Utterson, “that’s a good rule of yours.” “Yes, I think it is,” returned Enfield. “But for all that,” continued the lawyer, “there’s one point I want to ask: I want to ask the name of that man who walked over the child.” “Well,” said Mr. Enfield, “I can’t see what harm it would do. It was a man of the name of Hyde.” “H’m,” said Mr. Utterson. “What sort of a man is he to see?” “He is not easy to describe. There is something wrong with his appearance; something displeasing, something downright detestable. I never saw a man I so disliked, and yet I scarce know why. He must be deformed somewhere; he gives a strong feeling of deformity, although I couldn’t specify the point. He’s an extraordinary looking man, and yet I really can name nothing out of the way. No, sir; I can make no hand of it; I can’t describe him. And it’s not want of memory; for I declare I can see him this moment.” Mr. Utterson again walked some way in silence and obviously under a weight of consideration. “You are sure he used a key?” he inquired at last. “My dear sir . . .” began Enfield, surprised out of himself. “Yes, I know,” said Utterson; “I know it must seem strange. The fact is, if I do not ask you the name of the other party, it is because I know it already. You see, Richard, your tale has gone home. If you have been inexact in any point, you had better correct it.” “I think you might have warned me,” returned the other with a touch of sullenness. “But I have been pedantically exact, as you call it. The fel-

293TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE low had a key; and what’s more, he has it still. I saw him use it, not a week ago.” Mr. Utterson sighed deeply but never said a word; and the young man presently resumed. “Here is another lesson to say nothing,” said he. “I am ashamed of my long tongue. Let us make a bargain never to refer to this again.” “With all my heart,” said the lawyer. “I shake hands on that, Richard.” S EARCH FOR M R. HYDE That evening Mr. Utterson came home to his bachelor house in sombre spirits and sat down to dinner without relish. It was his custom of a Sunday, when this meal was over, to sit close by the fire, a volume of some dry divinity on his reading-desk, until the clock of the neighboring church rang out the hour of twelve, when he would go soberly and gratefully to bed. On this night, however, as soon as the cloth was taken away, he took up a candle and went into his business room. There he opened his safe, took from the most private part of it a document endorsed on the envelope as Dr. Jekyll’s Will, and sat down with a clouded brow to study its contents. The will was holograph, for Mr. Utterson, though he took charge of it now that it was made, had refused to lend the least assistance in the making of it; it provided not only that, in case of the decease of Henry Jekyll, M.D., D.C.L., LL.D., F.R.S., etc., all his possessions were to pass into the hands of his “friend and benefactor Edward Hyde,” but that in case of Dr. Jekyll’s “disappearance or unexplained absence for any period exceeding three calendar months,” the said Edward Hyde should step into the said Henry Jekyll’s shoes without further delay and free from any burden or obligation, beyond the payment of a few small sums to the members of the doctor’s household. This document had long been the lawyer’s eyesore. It offended him both as a lawyer and as a lover of the sane and customary sides of life, to whom the fanciful was the immodest. And hitherto it was his ignorance of Mr. Hyde that had swelled his indignation; now, by a sudden turn, it was his knowledge. It was already bad enough when the name was but a name of which he could learn no more. It was worse when it began to be clothed upon with detestable attributes; and out of the shifting, insubstantial mists that had so long baffled his eye, there leaped up the sudden, definite presentment of a fiend. “I thought it was madness,” he said, as he replaced the obnoxious paper in the safe, “and now I begin to fear it is disgrace.”

294 Robert Louis Stevenson With that he blew out his candle, put on a great-coat, and set forth in the direction of Cavendish Square, that citadel of medicine, where his friend, the great Dr. Lanyon, had his house and received his crowding patients. “If any one knows, it will be Lanyon,” he had thought. The solemn butler knew and welcomed him; he was subjected to no stage of delay, but ushered direct from the door to the dining-room where Dr. Lanyon sat alone over his wine. This was a hearty, healthy, dapper, red-faced gentleman, with a shock of hair prematurely white, and a boisterous and decided manner. At sight of Mr. Utterson he sprang up from his chair and welcomed him with both hands. The geniality, as was the way of the man, was somewhat theatrical to the eye; but it reposed on genuine feeling. For these two were old friends, old mates both at school and college, both thorough respecters of themselves and of each other, and, what does not always follow, men who thoroughly enjoyed each other’s company. After a little rambling talk, the lawyer led up to the subject which so disagreeably preoccupied his mind. “I suppose, Lanyon,” said he, “you and I must be the two oldest friends that Henry Jekyll has?” “I wish the friends were younger,” chuckled Dr. Lanyon. “But I suppose we are. And what of that? I see little of him now.” “Indeed?” said Utterson. “I thought you had a bond of common interest.” “We had,” was the reply. “But it is more than ten years since Henry Jekyll became too fanciful for me. He began to go wrong, wrong in mind; and though of course I continue to take an interest in him for old sake’s sake, as they say, I see and I have seen devilish little of the man. Such unscientific balderdash,” added the doctor, flushing suddenly purple, “would have estranged Damon and Pythias.” This little spirit of temper was somewhat of a relief to Mr. Utterson. “They have only differed on some point of science,” he thought; and being a man of no scientific passions (except in the matter of conveyancing), he even added: “It is nothing worse than that!” He gave his friend a few seconds to recover his composure, and then approached the question he had come to put. “Did you ever come across a protégé of his—one Hyde?” he asked. “Hyde?” repeated Lanyon. “No. Never heard of him. Since my time.” That was the amount of information that the lawyer carried back with him to the great, dark bed on which he tossed to and fro, until the small hours of the morning began to grow large. It was a night of little ease to

295TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE his toiling mind, toiling in mere darkness and besieged by questions. Six o’clock struck on the bells of the church that was so conveniently near to Mr. Utterson’s dwelling, and still he was digging at the problem. Hitherto it had touched him on the intellectual side alone; but now his imagination also was engaged, or rather enslaved; and as he lay and tossed in the gross darkness of the night and the curtained room, Mr. Enfield’s tale went by before his mind in a scroll of lighted pictures. He would be aware of the great field of lamps of a nocturnal city; then of the figure of a man walking swiftly; then of a child running from the doctor’s; and then these met, and that human Juggernaut trod the child down and passed on regardless of her screams. Or else he would see a room in a rich house, where his friend lay asleep, dreaming and smiling at his dreams; and then the door of that room would be opened, the curtains of the bed plucked apart, the sleeper recalled, and lo! there would stand by his side a figure to whom power was given, and even at that dead hour, he must rise and do its bidding. The figure in these two phases haunted the lawyer all night; and if at any time he dozed over, it was but to see it glide more stealthily through sleeping houses, or move the more swiftly and still the more swiftly, even to dizziness, through wider labyrinths of lamp-lighted city, and at every street corner crush a child and leave her screaming. And still the figure had no face by which he might know it; even in his dreams, it had no face, or one that baffled him and melted before his eyes; and thus it was that there sprang up and grew apace in the lawyer’s mind a singularly strong, almost an inordinate, curiosity to behold the features of the real Mr. Hyde. If he could but once set eyes on him, he thought the mystery would lighten and perhaps roll altogether away, as was the habit of mysterious things when well examined. He might see a reason for his friend’s strange preference or bondage (call it which you please) and even for the startling clause of the will. At least it would be a face worth seeing: the face of a man who was without bowels of mercy, a face which had but to show itself to raise up in the mind of the unimpressionable Enfield a spirit of enduring hatred. From that time forward, Mr. Utterson began to haunt the door in the by-street of shops. In the morning before office hours, at noon when business was plenty, and time scarce, at night under the face of the fogged city moon, by all lights and at all hours of solitude or concourse, the lawyer was to be found on his chosen post. “If he be Mr. Hyde,” he had thought, “I shall be Mr. Seek.” And at last his patience was rewarded. It was a fine dry night; frost in the air; the streets as clean as a ball-room floor; the lamps, unshaken by

296 Robert Louis Stevenson any wind, drawing a regular pattern of light and shadow. By ten o’clock, when the shops were closed, the by-street was very solitary and, in spite of the low growl of London from all round, very silent. Small sounds carried far; domestic sounds out of the houses were clearly audible on either side of the roadway; and the rumour of the approach of any passenger preceded him by a long time. Mr. Utterson had been some minutes at his post, when he was aware of an odd, light footstep drawing near. In the course of his nightly patrols, he had long grown accustomed to the quaint effect with which the footfalls of a single person, while he is still a great way off, suddenly spring out distinct from the vast hum and clatter of the city. Yet his attention had never before been so sharply and decisively arrested; and it was with a strong, superstitious prevision of success that he withdrew into the entry of the court. The steps drew swiftly nearer, and swelled out suddenly louder as they turned the end of the street. The lawyer, looking forth from the entry, could soon see what manner of man he had to deal with. He was small and very plainly dressed, and the look of him, even at that distance, went somehow strongly against the watcher’s inclination. But he made straight for the door, crossing the roadway to save time; and as he came, he drew a key from his pocket like one approaching home. Mr. Utterson stepped out and touched him on the shoulder as he passed. “Mr. Hyde, I think?” Mr. Hyde shrank back with a hissing intake of the breath. But his fear was only momentary; and though he did not look the lawyer in the face, he answered coolly enough: “That is my name. What do you want?” “I see you are going in,” returned the lawyer. “I am an old friend of Dr. Jekyll’s—Mr. Utterson of Gaunt Street—you must have heard my name; and meeting you so conveniently, I thought you might admit me.” “You will not find Dr. Jekyll; he is from home,” replied Mr. Hyde, blowing in the key. And then suddenly, but still without looking up, “How did you know me?” he asked. “On your side,” said Mr. Utterson, “will you do me a favour?” “With pleasure,” replied the other. “What shall it be?” “Will you let me see your face?” asked the lawyer. Mr. Hyde appeared to hesitate, and then, as if upon some sudden reflection, fronted about with an air of defiance; and the pair stared at each other pretty fixedly for a few seconds. “Now I shall know you again,” said Mr. Utterson. “It may be useful.” “Yes,” returned Mr. Hyde, “it is as well we have met; and à propos,

297TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE you should have my address.” And he gave a number of a street in Soho. “Good God!” thought Mr. Utterson, “can he, too, have been thinking of the will?” But he kept his feelings to himself and only grunted in acknowledgment of the address. “And now,” said the other, “how did you know me?” “By description,” was the reply. “Whose description?” “We have common friends,” said Mr. Utterson. “Common friends?” echoed Mr. Hyde, a little hoarsely. “Who are they?” “Jekyll, for instance,” said the lawyer. “He never told you,” cried Mr. Hyde, with a flush of anger. “I did not think you would have lied.” “Come,” said Mr. Utterson, “that is not fitting language.” The other snarled aloud into a savage laugh; and the next moment, with extraordinary quickness, he had unlocked the door and disappeared into the house. The lawyer stood awhile when Mr. Hyde had left him, the picture of disquietude. Then he began slowly to mount the street, pausing every step or two and putting his hand to his brow like a man in mental perplexity. The problem he was thus debating as he walked, was one of a class that is rarely solved. Mr. Hyde was pale and dwarfish, he gave an impression of deformity without any nameable malformation, he had a displeasing smile, he had borne himself to the lawyer with a sort of murderous mixture of timidity and boldness, and he spoke with a husky, whispering and somewhat broken voice; all these were points against him, but not all of these together could explain the hitherto unknown disgust, loathing, and fear with which Mr. Utterson regarded him. “There must be something else,” said the perplexed gentleman. “There is something more, if I could find a name for it. God bless me, the man seems hardly human! Something troglodytic, shall we say? Or can it be the old story of Dr. Fell? Or is it the mere radiance of a foul soul that thus transpires through, and transfigures, its clay continent? The last, I think; for, O my poor old Harry Jekyll, if ever I read Satan’s signature upon a face, it is on that of your new friend.” Round the corner from the by-street, there was a square of ancient, handsome houses, now for the most part decayed from their high estate and let in flats and chambers to all sorts and conditions of men: map- engravers, architects, shady lawyers and the agents of obscure enter- prises. One house, however, second from the corner, was still occupied

298 Robert Louis Stevenson entire; and at the door of this, which wore a great air of wealth and comfort, though it was now plunged in darkness except for the fanlight, Mr. Utterson stopped and knocked. A well-dressed, elderly servant opened the door. “Is Dr. Jekyll at home, Poole?” asked the lawyer. “I will see, Mr. Utterson,” said Poole, admitting the visitor, as he spoke, into a large, low-roofed, comfortable hall, paved with flags, warmed (after the fashion of a country house) by a bright, open fire, and furnished with costly cabinets of oak. “Will you wait here by the fire, sir? or shall I give you a light in the dining-room?” “Here, thank you,” said the lawyer, and he drew near and leaned on the tall fender. This hall, in which he was now left alone, was a pet fancy of his friend the doctor’s; and Utterson himself was wont to speak of it as the pleasantest room in London. But to-night there was a shudder in his blood; the face of Hyde sat heavy on his memory; he felt (what was rare with him) a nausea and distaste of life; and in the gloom of his spirits, he seemed to read a menace in the flickering of the firelight on the polished cabinets and the uneasy starting of the shadow on the roof. He was ashamed of his relief, when Poole presently returned to announce that Dr. Jekyll was gone out. “I saw Mr. Hyde go in by the old dissecting-room door, Poole,” he said. “Is that right, when Dr. Jekyll is from home?” “Quite right, Mr. Utterson, sir,” replied the servant. “Mr. Hyde has a key.” “Your master seems to repose a great deal of trust in that young man, Poole,” resumed the other musingly. “Yes, sir, he do indeed,” said Poole. “We have all orders to obey him.” “I do not think I ever met Mr. Hyde?” asked Utterson. “O, dear no, sir. He never dines here,” replied the butler. “Indeed we see very little of him on this side of the house; he mostly comes and goes by the laboratory.” “Well, good-night, Poole.” “Good-night, Mr. Utterson.” And the lawyer set out homeward with a very heavy heart. “Poor Harry Jekyll,” he thought, “my mind misgives me he is in deep wa- ters! He was wild when he was young; a long while ago to be sure; but in the law of God, there is no statute of limitations. Ay, it must be that; the ghost of some old sin, the cancer of some concealed disgrace: punishment coming, pede claudo, years after memory has forgotten and self-love condoned the fault.” The lawyer, scared by the thought, brooded

299TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE awhile on his own past, groping in all the corners of memory, lest by chance some Jack-in-the-box of an old iniquity should leap to light there. His past was fairly blameless; few men could read the rolls of their life with less apprehension; yet he was humbled to the dust by the many ill things he had done, and raised up again into a sober and fearful gratitude by the many that he had come so near to doing, yet avoided. And then by a return on his former subject, he conceived a spark of hope. “This Master Hyde, if he were studied,” thought he, “must have secrets of his own; black secrets, by the look of him; secrets compared to which poor Jekyll’s worst would be like sunshine. Things cannot continue as they are. It turns me cold to think of this creature stealing like a thief to Harry’s bedside; poor Harry, what a wakening! And the danger of it; for if this Hyde suspects the existence of the will, he may grow impatient to inherit. Ay, I must put my shoulder to the wheel—if Jekyll will but let me,” he added, “if Jekyll will only let me.” For once more he saw before his mind’s eye, as clear as a transparency, the strange clauses of the will. DR. J E KYLL WAS QU ITE AT EAS E A fortnight later, by excellent good fortune, the doctor gave one of his pleasant dinners to some five or six old cronies, all intelligent, reputable men and all judges of good wine; and Mr. Utterson so contrived that he remained behind after the others had departed. This was no new arrangement, but a thing that had befallen many scores of times. Where Utterson was liked, he was well liked. Hosts loved to detain the dry lawyer, when the light-hearted and the loose-tongued had already their foot on the threshold; they liked to sit awhile in his unobtrusive company, practising for solitude, sobering their minds in the man’s rich silence after the expense and strain of gaiety. To this rule, Dr. Jekyll was no exception; and as he now sat on the opposite side of the fire—a large, well- made, smooth-faced man of fifty, with something of a slyish cast perhaps, but every mark of capacity and kindness—you could see by his looks that he cherished for Mr. Utterson a sincere and warm affection. “I have been wanting to speak to you, Jekyll,” began the latter. “You know that will of yours?” A close observer might have gathered that the topic was distasteful; but the doctor carried it off gaily. “My poor Utterson,” said he, “you are unfortunate in such a client. I never saw a man so distressed as you were by my will; unless it were that hide-bound pedant, Lanyon, at what he called my scientific heresies. O, I know he’s a good fellow—you needn’t

300 Robert Louis Stevenson frown—an excellent fellow, and I always mean to see more of him; but a hide-bound pedant for all that; an ignorant, blatant pedant. I was never more disappointed in any man than Lanyon.” “You know I never approved of it,” pursued Utterson, ruthlessly disregarding the fresh topic. “My will? Yes, certainly, I know that,” said the doctor, a trifle sharply. “You have told me so.” “Well, I tell you so again,” continued the lawyer. “I have been learning something of young Hyde.” The large handsome face of Dr. Jekyll grew pale to the very lips, and there came a blackness about his eyes. “I do not care to hear more,” said he. “This is a matter I thought we had agreed to drop.” “What I heard was abominable,” said Utterson. “It can make no change. You do not understand my position,” returned the doctor, with a certain incoherency of manner. “I am painfully situated, Utterson; my position is a very strange—a very strange one. It is one of those affairs that cannot be mended by talking.” “Jekyll,” said Utterson, “you know me: I am a man to be trusted. Make a clean breast of this in confidence; and I make no doubt I can get you out of it” “My good Utterson,” said the doctor, “this is very good of you, this is downright good of you, and I cannot find words to thank you in. I believe you fully; I would trust you before any man alive, ay, before myself, if I could make the choice; but indeed it isn’t what you fancy; it is not so bad as that; and just to put your good heart at rest, I will tell you one thing: the moment I choose, I can be rid of Mr. Hyde. I give you my hand upon that; and I thank you again and again; and I will just add one little word, Utterson, that I’m sure you’ll take in good part: this is a private matter, and I beg of you to let it sleep.” Utterson reflected a little, looking in the fire. “I have no doubt you are perfectly right,” he said at last, getting to his feet. “Well, but since we have touched upon this business, and for the last time I hope,” continued the doctor, “there is one point I should like you to understand. I have really a very great interest in poor Hyde. I know you have seen him; he told me so; and I fear he was rude. But I do sincerely take a great, a very great interest in that young man; and if I am taken away, Utterson, I wish you to promise me that you will bear with him and get his rights for him. I think you would, if you knew all; and it would be a weight off my mind if you would promise.”

301TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE “I can’t pretend that I shall ever like him,” said the lawyer. “I don’t ask that,” pleaded Jekyll, laying his hand upon the other’s arm; “I only ask for justice; I only ask you to help him for my sake, when I am no longer here.” Utterson heaved an irrepressible sigh. “Well,” said he, “I promise.” TH E CAREW M U RDE R CAS E Nearly a year later, in the month of October, 18—, London was startled by a crime of singular ferocity and rendered all the more notable by the high position of the victim. The details were few and startling. A maidservant, living alone in a house not far from the river, had gone upstairs to bed about eleven. Although a fog rolled over the city in the small hours, the early part of the night was cloudless, and the lane, which the maid’s window overlooked, was brilliantly lit by the full moon. It seems she was romantically given, for she sat down upon her box, which stood immediately under the window, and fell into a dream of musing. Never (she used to say, with streaming tears, when she narrated that experience), never had she felt more at peace with all men or thought more kindly of the world. And as she so sat she became aware of an aged and beautiful gentleman with white hair, drawing near along the lane; and advancing to meet him, another and very small gentleman, to whom at first she paid less attention. When they had come within speech (which was just under the maid’s eyes) the older man bowed and accosted the other with a very pretty manner of politeness. It did not seem as if the subject of his address were of great importance; indeed, from his pointing, it sometimes appeared as if he were only inquiring his way; but the moon shone on his face as he spoke, and the girl was pleased to watch it, it seemed to breathe such an innocent and old-world kindness of disposition, yet with something high too, as of a well-founded self-content. Presently her eye wandered to the other, and she was surprised to recog- nize in him a certain Mr. Hyde, who had once visited her master and for whom she had conceived a dislike. He had in his hand a heavy cane, with which he was trifling; but he answered never a word, and seemed to listen with an ill-contained impatience. And then all of a sudden he broke out in a great flame of anger, stamping with his foot, brandishing the cane, and carrying on (as the maid described it) like a madman. The old gentleman took a step back, with the air of one very much surprised and a trifle hurt; and at that Mr. Hyde broke out of all bounds and clubbed him to the earth. And next moment, with apelike fury, he was

302 Robert Louis Stevenson trampling his victim underfoot and hailing down a storm of blows, under which the bones were audibly shattered and the body jumped upon the roadway. At the horror of these sights and sounds, the maid fainted. It was two o’clock when she came to herself and called for the police. The murderer was gone long ago; but there lay his victim in the middle of the lane, incredibly mangled. The stick with which the deed had been done, although it was of some rare and very tough and heavy wood, had broken in the middle under the stress of this insensate cruelty; and one splintered half had rolled in the neighbouring gutter—the other, without doubt, had been carried away by the murderer. A purse and a gold watch were found upon the victim: but no cards or papers, except a sealed and stamped envelope, which he had been probably carrying to the post, and which bore the name and address of Mr. Utterson. This was brought to the lawyer the next morning, before he was out of bed; and he had no sooner seen it, and been told the circumstances, than he shot out a solemn lip. “I shall say nothing till I have seen the body,” said he; “this may be very serious. Have the kindness to wait while I dress.” And with the same grave countenance he hurried through his breakfast and drove to the police station, whither the body had been carried. As soon as he came into the cell, he nodded. “Yes,” said he, “I recognize him. I am sorry to say that this is Sir Danvers Carew.” “Good God, sir,” exclaimed the officer, “is it possible?” And the next moment his eye lighted up with professional ambition. “This will make a deal of noise,” he said. “And perhaps you can help us to the man.” And he briefly narrated what the maid had seen, and showed the broken stick. Mr. Utterson had already quailed at the name of Hyde; but when the stick was laid before him, he could doubt no longer; broken and battered as it was, he recognized it for one that he had himself presented many years before to Henry Jekyll. “Is this Mr. Hyde a person of small stature?” he inquired. “Particularly small and particularly wicked-looking, is what the maid calls him,” said the officer. Mr. Utterson reflected; and then, raising his head, “If you will come with me to my cab,” he said, “I think I can take you to his house.” It was by this time about nine in the morning, and the first fog of the season. A great chocolate-coloured pall lowered over heaven, but the wind was continually charging and routing these embattled vapours; so that as the cab crawled from street to street, Mr. Utterson beheld a mar- vellous number of degrees and hues of twilight; for here it would be dark

303TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE like the back-end of evening; and there would be a glow of a rich, lurid brown, like the light of some strange conflagration; and here, for a moment, the fog would be quite broken up, and a haggard shaft of daylight would glance in between the swirling wreaths. The dismal quarter of Soho seen under these changing glimpses, with its muddy ways, and slatternly passengers, and its lamps, which had never been extinguished or had been kindled afresh to combat this mournful reinvasion of darkness, seemed, in the lawyer’s eyes, like a district of some city in a nightmare. The thoughts of his mind, besides, were of the gloomiest dye; and when he glanced at the companion of his drive, he was conscious of some touch of that terror of the law and the law’s officers, which may at times assail the most honest. As the cab drew up before the address indicated, the fog lifted a little and showed him a dingy street, a gin palace, a low French eating-house, a shop for the retail of penny numbers and two-penny salads, many ragged children huddled in the doorways, and many women of many different nationalities passing out, key in hand, to have a morning glass; and the next moment the fog settled down again upon that part, as brown as umber, and cut him off from his blackguardly surroundings. This was the home of Henry Jekyll’s favourite; of a man who was heir to quarter of a million sterling. An ivory-faced and silvery-haired old woman opened the door. She had an evil face, smoothed by hypocrisy; but her manners were excellent. Yes, she said, this was Mr. Hyde’s, but he was not at home; he had been in that night very late, but had gone away again in less than an hour; there was nothing strange in that; his habits were very irregular, and he was often absent; for instance, it was nearly two months since she had seen him till yesterday. “Very well, then, we wish to see his rooms,” said the lawyer; and when the woman began to declare it was impossible, “I had better tell you who this person is,” he added. “This is Inspector Newcomen of Scotland Yard.” A flash of odious joy appeared upon the woman’s face. “Ah!” said she, “he is in trouble! What has he done?” Mr. Utterson and the inspector exchanged glances. “He don’t seem a very popular character,” observed the latter. “And now, my good woman, just let me and this gentleman have a look about us.” In the whole extent of the house, which but for the old woman remained otherwise empty, Mr. Hyde had only used a couple of rooms; but these were furnished with luxury and good taste. A closet was filled

304 Robert Louis Stevenson with wine; the plate was of silver, the napery elegant; a good picture hung upon the walls, a gift (as Utterson supposed) from Henry Jekyll, who was much of a connoisseur; and the carpets were of many plies and agreeable in colour. At this moment, however, the rooms bore every mark of having been recently and hurriedly ransacked; clothes lay about the floor, with their pockets inside out; lock-fast drawers stood open; and on the hearth there lay a pile of grey ashes, as though many papers had been burned. From these embers the inspector disinterred the butt end of a green cheque book, which had resisted the action of the fire; the other half of the stick was found behind the door; and as this clinched his suspicions, the officer declared himself delighted. A visit to the bank, where several thousand pounds were found to be lying to the murderer’s credit, completed his gratification. “You may depend upon it, sir,” he told Mr. Utterson: “I have him in my hand. He must have lost his head, or he never would have left the stick or, above all, burned the cheque book. Why, money’s life to the man. We have nothing to do but wait for him at the bank, and get out the handbills.” This last, however, was not so easy of accomplishment; for Mr. Hyde had numbered few familiars—even the master of the servant maid had only seen him twice; his family could nowhere be traced; he had never been photographed; and the few who could describe him differed widely, as common observers will. Only on one point, were they agreed; and that was the haunting sense of unexpressed deformity with which the fugitive impressed his beholders. I NCI DE NT OF TH E LETTE R It was late in the afternoon, when Mr. Utterson found his way to Dr. Jekyll’s door, where he was at once admitted by Poole, and carried down by the kitchen offices and across a yard which had once been a garden, to the building which was indifferently known as the laboratory or the dissecting-rooms. The doctor had bought the house from the heirs of a celebrated surgeon; and his own tastes being rather chemical than anatomical, had changed the destination of the block at the bottom of the garden. It was the first time that the lawyer had been received in that part of his friend’s quarters; and he eyed the dingy, windowless structure with curiosity, and gazed round with a distasteful sense of strangeness as he crossed the theatre, once crowded with eager students and now lying gaunt and silent, the tables laden with chemical apparatus,

305TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE the floor strewn with crates and littered with packing straw, and the light falling dimly through the foggy cupola. At the further end, a flight of stairs mounted to a door covered with red baize; and through this, Mr. Utterson was at last received into the doctor’s cabinet. It was a large room, fitted round with glass presses, furnished, among other things, with a cheval-glass and a business table, and looking out upon the court by three dusty windows barred with iron. A fire burned in the grate; a lamp was set lighted on the chimney shelf, for even in the houses the fog began to lie thickly; and there, close up to the warmth, sat Dr. Jekyll, looking deadly sick. He did not rise to meet his visitor, but held out a cold hand and bade him welcome in a changed voice. “And now,” said Mr. Utterson, as soon as Poole had left them, “you have heard the news?” The doctor shuddered. “They were crying it in the square,” he said. “I heard them in my dining-room.” “One word,” said the lawyer. “Carew was my client, but so are you, and I want to know what I am doing. You have not been mad enough to hide this fellow?” “Utterson, I swear to God,” cried the doctor, “I swear to God I will never set eyes on him again. I bind my honour to you that I am done with him in this world. It is all at an end. And indeed he does not want my help; you do not know him as I do; he is safe, he is quite safe; mark my words, he will never more be heard of.” The lawyer listened gloomily; he did not like his friend’s feverish manner. “You seem pretty sure of him,” said he; “and for your sake, I hope you may be right. If it came to a trial, your name might appear.” “I am quite sure of him,” replied Jekyll; “I have grounds for certainty that I cannot share with any one. But there is one thing on which you may advise me. I have—I have received a letter; and I am at a loss whether I should show it to the police. I should like to leave it in your hands, Utterson; you would judge wisely, I am sure; I have so great a trust in you.” “You fear, I suppose, that it might lead to his detection?” asked the lawyer. “No,” said the other. “I cannot say that I care what becomes of Hyde; I am quite done with him. I was thinking of my own character, which this hateful business has rather exposed.” Utterson ruminated awhile; he was surprised at his friend’s selfishness, and yet relieved by it. “Well,” said he, at last, “let me see the letter.” The letter was written in an odd, upright hand and signed “Edward

306 Robert Louis Stevenson Hyde”; and it signified, briefly enough, that the writer’s benefactor, Dr. Jekyll, whom he had long so unworthily repaid for a thousand generosities, need labour under no alarm for his safety, as he had means of escape on which he placed a sure dependence. The lawyer liked this letter well enough; it put a better colour on the intimacy than he had looked for; and he blamed himself for some of his past suspicions. “Have you the envelope?” he asked. “I burned it,” replied Jekyll, “before I thought what I was about. But it bore no postmark. The note was handed in.” “Shall I keep this and sleep upon it?” asked Utterson. “I wish you to judge for me entirely,” was the reply. “I have lost confidence in myself.” “Well, I shall consider,” returned the lawyer. “And now one word more: it was Hyde who dictated the terms in your will about that disappearance?” The doctor seemed seized with a qualm of faintness; he shut his mouth tight and nodded. “I knew it,” said Utterson. “He meant to murder you. You have had a fine escape.” “I have had what is far more to the purpose,” returned the doctor solemnly: “I have had a lesson—O God, Utterson, what a lesson I have had!” And he covered his face for a moment with his hands. On his way out the lawyer stopped and had a word or two with Poole. “By-the-bye,” said he, “there was a letter handed in to-day: what was the messenger like?” But Poole was positive nothing had come except by post; “and only circulars by that,” he added. This news sent off the visitor with his fears renewed. Plainly the letter had come by the laboratory door; possibly, indeed, it had been written in the cabinet; and if that were so, it must be differently judged, and handled with the more caution. The newsboys, as he went, were crying themselves hoarse along the footways: “Special edition. Shocking murder of an M.P.” That was the funeral oration of one friend and client; and he could not help a certain apprehension lest the good name of another should be sucked down in the eddy of the scandal. It was, at least, a ticklish decision that he had to make; and self-reliant as he was by habit, he began to cherish a longing for advice. It was not to be had directly; but perhaps, he thought, it might be fished for. Presently after, he sat on one side of his own hearth, with Mr. Guest, his head clerk, upon the other, and midway between, at a nicely calcu- lated distance from the fire, a bottle of a particular old wine that had

307TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE long dwelt unsunned in the foundations of his house. The fog still slept on the wing above the drowned city, where the lamps glimmered like carbuncles; and through the muffle and smother of these fallen clouds, the procession of the town’s life was still rolling in through the great arteries with a sound as of a mighty wind. But the room was gay with firelight. In the bottle the acids were long ago resolved; the imperial dye had softened with time, as the colour grows richer in stained windows; and the glow of hot autumn afternoons on hillside vineyards, was ready to be set free and to disperse the fogs of London. Insensibly the lawyer melted. There was no man from whom he kept fewer secrets than Mr. Guest; and he was not always sure that he kept as many as he meant. Guest had often been on business to the doctor’s; he knew Poole; he could scarce have failed to hear of Mr. Hyde’s familiarity about the house; he might draw conclusions: was it not as well, then, that he should see a letter which put that mystery to rights? And, above all, since Guest, being a great student and critic of handwriting, would consider the step natural and obliging? The clerk, besides, was a man of counsel; he would scarce read so strange a document without dropping a remark; and by that remark Mr. Utterson might shape his future course. “This is a sad business about Sir Danvers,” he said. “Yes, sir, indeed. It has elicited a great deal of public feeling,” returned Guest. “The man, of course, was mad.” “I should like to hear your views on that,” replied Utterson. “I have a document here in his handwriting; it is between ourselves, for I scarce know what to do about it; it is an ugly business at the best. But there it is; quite in your way: a murderer’s autograph.” Guest’s eyes brightened, and he sat down at once and studied it with passion. “No, sir,” he said: “not mad; but it is an odd hand.” “And by all accounts a very odd writer,” added the lawyer. Just then the servant entered with a note. “Is that from Dr. Jekyll, sir?” inquired the clerk. “I thought I knew the writing. Anything private, Mr. Utterson?” “Only an invitation to dinner. Why? Do you want to see it?” “One moment. I thank you, sir”; and the clerk laid the two sheets of paper alongside and sedulously compared their contents. “Thank you, sir,” he said at last, returning both; “it’s a very interesting autograph.” There was a pause, during which Mr. Utterson struggled with himself. “Why did you compare them, Guest?” he inquired suddenly. “Well, sir,” returned the clerk, “there’s a rather singular resemblance; the two hands are in many points identical: only differently sloped.”

308 Robert Louis Stevenson “Rather quaint,” said Utterson. “It is, as you say, rather quaint,” returned Guest. “I wouldn’t speak of this note, you know,” said the master. “No, sir,” said the clerk. “I understand.” But no sooner was Mr. Utterson alone that night than he locked the note into his safe, where it reposed from that time forward. “What!” he thought. “Henry Jekyll forge for a murderer!” And his blood ran cold in his veins. RE MARKAB LE I NCI DE NT OF DR. LANYON Time ran on; thousands of pounds were offered in reward, for the death of Sir Danvers was resented as a public injury; but Mr. Hyde had disappeared out of the ken of the police as though he had never existed. Much of his past was unearthed, indeed, and all disreputable: tales came out of the man’s cruelty, at once so callous and violent; of his vile life, of his strange associates, of the hatred that seemed to have surrounded his career; but of his present whereabouts, not a whisper. From the time he had left the house in Soho on the morning of the murder, he was simply blotted out; and gradually, as time drew on, Mr. Utterson began to recover from the hotness of his alarm, and to grow more at quiet with himself. The death of Sir Danvers was, to his way of thinking, more than paid for by the disappearance of Mr. Hyde. Now that that evil influence had been withdrawn, a new life began for Dr. Jekyll. He came out of his seclusion, renewed relations with his friends, became once more their familiar guest and entertainer; and whilst he had always been known for charities, he was now no less distinguished for religion. He was busy, he was much in the open air, he did good; his face seemed to open and brighten, as if with an inward consciousness of service; and for more than two months, the doctor was at peace. On the 8th of January Utterson had dined at the doctor’s with a small party; Lanyon had been there; and the face of the host had looked from one to the other as in the old days when the trio were inseparable friends. On the 12th, and again on the 14th, the door was shut against the lawyer. “The doctor was confined to the house,” Poole said, “and saw no one.” On the 15th, he tried again, and was again refused; and having now been used for the last two months to see his friend almost daily, he found this return of solitude to weigh upon his spirits. The fifth night he had in Guest to dine with him; and the sixth he betook himself to Dr. Lanyon’s. There at least he was not denied admittance; but when he came in, he

309TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE was shocked at the change which had taken place in the doctor’s appearance. He had his death-warrant written legibly upon his face. The rosy man had grown pale; his flesh had fallen away; he was visibly balder and older; and yet it was not so much these tokens of a swift physical decay that arrested the lawyer’s notice, as a look in the eye and quality of manner that seemed to testify to some deep-seated terror of the mind. It was unlikely that the doctor should fear death; and yet that was what Utterson was tempted to suspect. “Yes,” he thought; “he is a doctor, he must know his own state and that his days are counted; and the knowledge is more than he can bear.” And yet when Utterson remarked on his ill looks, it was with an air of great firmness that Lanyon declared himself a doomed man. “I have had a shock,” he said, “and I shall never recover. It is a question of weeks. Well, life has been pleasant; I liked it; yes, sir, I used to like it. I sometimes think if we knew all, we should be more glad to get away.” “Jekyll is ill, too,” observed Utterson. “Have you seen him?” But Lanyon’s face changed, and he held up a trembling hand. “I wish to see or hear no more of Dr. Jekyll,” he said in a loud, unsteady voice. “I am quite done with that person; and I beg that you will spare me any allusion to one whom I regard as dead.” “Tut-tut,” said Mr. Utterson; and then after a considerable pause, “Can’t I do anything?” he inquired. “We are three very old friends, Lanyon; we shall not live to make others.” “Nothing can be done,” returned Lanyon; “ask himself.” “He will not see me,” said the lawyer. “I am not surprised at that,” was the reply. “Some day, Utterson, after I am dead, you may perhaps come to learn the right and wrong of this. I cannot tell you. And in the meantime, if you can sit and talk with me of other things, for God’s sake, stay and do so; but if you cannot keep clear of this accursed topic, then, in God’s name, go, for I cannot bear it.” As soon as he got home, Utterson sat down and wrote to Jekyll, complaining of his exclusion from the house, and asking the cause of this unhappy break with Lanyon; and the next day brought him a long answer, often very pathetically worded, and sometimes darkly mysterious in drift. The quarrel with Lanyon was incurable. “I do not blame our old friend,” Jekyll wrote, “but I share his view that we must never meet. I mean from henceforth to lead a life of extreme seclusion; you must not be surprised, nor must you doubt my friendship, if my door is often shut even to you. You must suffer me to go my own dark way. I have brought on myself a punishment and a danger that I cannot name. If I am the chief of sinners,

310 Robert Louis Stevenson I am the chief of sufferers also. I could not think that this earth contained a place for sufferings and terrors so unmanning; and you can do but one thing, Utterson, to lighten this destiny, and that is to respect my silence.” Utterson was amazed; the dark influence of Hyde had been withdrawn, the doctor had returned to his old tasks and amities; a week ago, the prospect had smiled with every promise of a cheerful and an honoured age; and now in a moment, friendship, and peace of mind, and the whole tenor of his life were wrecked. So great and unprepared a change pointed to madness; but in view of Lanyon’s manner and words, there must lie for it some deeper ground. A week afterwards Dr. Lanyon took to his bed, and in something less than a fortnight he was dead. The night after the funeral, at which he had been sadly affected, Utterson locked the door of his business room, and sitting there by the light of a melancholy candle, drew out and set before him an envelope addressed by the hand and sealed with the seal of his dead friend. “PRIVATE: for the hands of G. J. Utterson ALONE, and in case of his predecease to be destroyed unread,” so it was emphatically superscribed; and the lawyer dreaded to behold the contents. “I have buried one friend to-day,” he thought: “what if this should cost me another?” And then he condemned the fear as a disloyalty, and broke the seal. Within there was another enclosure, likewise sealed, and marked upon the cover as “not to be opened till the death or disappearance of Dr. Henry Jekyll.” Utterson could not trust his eyes. Yes, it was disappearance; here again, as in the mad will which he had long ago restored to its author, here again were the idea of a disappearance and the name of Henry Jekyll bracketed. But, in the will, that idea had sprung from the sinister suggestion of the man Hyde; it was set there with a purpose all too plain and horrible. Written by the hand of Lanyon, what should it mean? A great curiosity came on the trustee, to disregard the prohibition and dive at once to the bottom of these mysteries; but professional honour and faith to his dead friend were stringent obligations; and the packet slept in the inmost corner of his private safe. It is one thing to mortify curiosity, another to conquer it; and it may be doubted if, from that day forth, Utterson desired the society of his surviv- ing friend with the same eagerness. He thought of him kindly; but his thoughts were disquieted and fearful. He went to call indeed; but he was perhaps relieved to be denied admittance; perhaps, in his heart, he preferred to speak with Poole upon the doorstep and surrounded by the air and sounds of the open city, rather than to be admitted into that house of voluntary bondage, and to sit and speak with its inscrutable recluse.

311TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE Poole had, indeed, no very pleasant news to communicate. The doctor, it appeared, now more than ever confined himself to the cabinet over the laboratory, where he would sometimes even sleep; he was out of spirits, he had grown very silent, he did not read; it seemed as if he had something on his mind. Utterson became so used to the unvarying character of these reports, that he fell off little by little in the frequency of his visits. I NCI DE NT AT TH E WI N D OW It chanced on Sunday, when Mr. Utterson was on his usual walk with Mr. Enfield, that their way lay once again through the bystreet; and that when they came in front of the door, both stopped to gaze on it. “Well,” said Enfield, “that story’s at an end at least. We shall never see more of Mr. Hyde.” “I hope not,” said Utterson. “Did I ever tell you that I once saw him, and shared your feeling of repulsion?” “It was impossible to do the one without the other,” returned Enfield. “And by the way, what an ass you must have thought me, not to know that this was a back way to Dr. Jekyll’s! It was partly your own fault that I found it out, even when I did.” “So you found it out, did you?” said Utterson. “But if that be so, we may step into the court and take a look at the windows. To tell you the truth, I am uneasy about poor Jekyll; and even outside, I feel as if the presence of a friend might do him good.” The court was very cool and a little damp, and full of premature twilight, although the sky, high up overhead, was still bright with sunset. The middle one of the three windows was half-way open; and sitting close beside it, taking the air with an infinite sadness of mien, like some disconsolate prisoner, Utterson saw Dr. Jekyll. “What! Jekyll!” he cried. “I trust you are better.” “I am very low, Utterson,” replied the doctor, drearily, “very low. It will not last long, thank God.” “You stay too much indoors,” said the lawyer. “You should be out, whipping up the circulation like Mr. Enfield and me. (This is my cousin—Mr. Enfield— Dr. Jekyll.) Come now; get your hat and take a quick turn with us.” “You are very good,” sighed the other. “I should like to very much; but no, no, no, it is quite impossible; I dare not. But indeed, Utterson, I am very glad to see you; this is really a great pleasure; I would ask you and Mr. Enfield up, but the place is really not fit.”

312 Robert Louis Stevenson “Why then,” said the lawyer, good-naturedly, “the best thing we can do is to stay down here and speak with you from where we are.” “That is just what I was about to venture to propose,” returned the doctor with a smile. But the words were hardly uttered, before the smile was struck out of his face and succeeded by an expression of such abject terror and despair, as froze the very blood of the two gentlemen below. They saw it but for a glimpse, for the window was instantly thrust down; but that glimpse had been sufficient, and they turned and left the court without a word. In silence, too, they traversed the by-streets; and it was not until they had come into a neighbouring thoroughfare, where even upon a Sunday there were still some stirrings of life, that Mr. Utterson at last turned and looked at his companion. They were both pale; and there was an answering horror in their eyes. “God forgive us, God forgive us,” said Mr. Utterson. But Mr. Enfield only nodded his head very seriously, and walked on once more in silence. TH E LAST N IG HT Mr. Utterson was sitting by his fireside one evening after dinner, when he was surprised to receive a visit from Poole. “Bless me, Poole, what brings you here?” he cried; and then taking a second look at him, “What ails you?” he added; “is the doctor ill?” “Mr. Utterson,” said the man, “there is something wrong.” “Take a seat, and here is a glass of wine for you,” said the lawyer. “Now, take your time, and tell me plainly what you want.” “You know the doctor’s ways, sir,” replied Poole, “and how he shuts himself up. Well, he’s shut up again in the cabinet; and I don’t like it, sir—I wish I may die if I like it. Mr. Utterson, sir, I’m afraid.” “Now, my good man,” said the lawyer, “be explicit. What are you afraid of?” “I’ve been afraid for about a week,” returned Poole, doggedly disregarding the question, “and I can bear it no more.” The man’s appearance amply bore out his words; his manner was altered for the worse; and except for the moment when he had first announced his terror, he had not once looked the lawyer in the face. Even now, he sat with the glass of wine untasted on his knee, and his eyes directed to a corner of the floor. “I can bear it no more,” he repeated. “Come,” said the lawyer, “I see you have some good reason, Poole; I see there is something seriously amiss. Try to tell me what it is.”

313TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE “I think there’s been foul play,” said Poole, hoarsely. “Foul play!” cried the lawyer, a good deal frightened and rather inclined to be irritated in consequence. “What foul play? What does the man mean?” “I daren’t say, sir,” was the answer; “but will you come along with me and see for yourself?” Mr. Utterson’s only answer was to rise and get his hat and greatcoat; but he observed with wonder the greatness of the relief that appeared upon the butler’s face, and perhaps with no less, that the wine was still untasted when he set it down to follow. It was a wild, cold, seasonable night of March, with a pale moon, lying on her back as though the wind had tilted her, and a flying wrack of the most diaphanous and lawny texture. The wind made talking difficult, and flecked the blood into the face. It seemed to have swept the streets unusually bare of passengers, besides; for Mr. Utterson thought he had never seen that part of London so deserted. He could have wished it otherwise; never in his life had he been conscious of so sharp a wish to see and touch his fellow-creatures; for struggle as he might, there was borne in upon his mind a crushing anticipation of calamity. The square, when they got there, was all full of wind and dust, and the thin trees in the garden were lashing themselves along the railing. Poole, who had kept all the way a pace or two ahead, now pulled up in the middle of the pavement, and in spite of the biting weather, took off his hat and mopped his brow with a red pocket-handkerchief. But for all the hurry of his coming, these were not the dews of exertion that he wiped away, but the moisture of some strangling anguish; for his face was white and his voice, when he spoke, harsh and broken. “Well, sir,” he said, “here we are, and God grant there be nothing wrong.” “Amen, Poole,” said the lawyer. Thereupon the servant knocked in a very guarded manner; the door was opened on the chain; and a voice asked from within, “Is that you, Poole?” “It’s all right,” said Poole. “Open the door.” The hall, when they entered it, was brightly lighted up; the fire was built high; and about the hearth the whole of the servants, men and women, stood huddled together like a flock of sheep. At the sight of Mr. Utterson, the housemaid broke into hysterical whimpering; and the cook, crying out, “Bless God! it’s Mr. Utterson,” ran forward as if to take him in her arms.

314 Robert Louis Stevenson “What, what? Are you all here?” said the lawyer peevishly. “Very irregular, very unseemly; your master would be far from pleased.” “They’re all afraid,” said Poole. Blank silence followed, no one protesting; only the maid lifted up her voice and now wept loudly. “Hold your tongue!” Poole said to her, with a ferocity of accent that testified to his own jangled nerves; and indeed, when the girl had so suddenly raised the note of her lamentation, they had all started and turned towards the inner door with faces of dreadful expectation. “And now,” continued the butler, addressing the knife-boy, “reach me a candle, and we’ll get this through hands at once.” And then he begged Mr. Utterson to follow him, and led the way to the back garden. “Now, sir,” said he, “you come as gently as you can. I want you to hear, and I don’t want you to be heard. And see here, sir, if by any chance he was to ask you in, don’t go.” Mr. Utterson’s nerves, at this unlooked-for termination, gave a jerk that nearly threw him from his balance; but he recollected his courage and followed the butler into the laboratory building and through the surgical theatre, with its lumber of crates and bottles, to the foot of the stair. Here Poole motioned him to stand on one side and listen; while he himself, setting down the candle and making a great and obvious call on his resolution, mounted the steps and knocked with a somewhat uncertain hand on the red baize of the cabinet door. “Mr. Utterson, sir, asking to see you,” he called; and even as he did so, once more violently signed to the lawyer to give ear. A voice answered from within: “Tell him I cannot see any one,” it said complainingly. “Thank you, sir,” said Poole, with a note of something like triumph in his voice; and taking up his candle, he led Mr. Utterson back across the yard and into the great kitchen, where the fire was out and the beetles were leaping on the floor. “Sir,” he said, looking Mr. Utterson in the eyes, “was that my master’s voice?” “It seems much changed,” replied the lawyer, very pale, but giving look for look. “Changed? Well, yes, I think so,” said the butler. “Have I been twenty years in this man’s house, to be deceived about his voice? No, sir; master’s made away with; he was made away with, eight days ago, when we heard him cry out upon the name of God; and who’s in there instead of him, and why it stays there, is a thing that cries to Heaven, Mr. Utterson!”

315TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE “This is a very strange tale, Poole; this is rather a wild tale, my man,” said Mr. Utterson, biting his finger. “Suppose it were as you suppose, supposing Dr. Jekyll to have been—well, murdered, what could induce the murderer to stay? That won’t hold water; it doesn’t commend itself to reason.” “Well, Mr. Utterson, you are a hard man to satisfy, but I’ll do it yet,” said Poole. “All this last week (you must know) him, or it, or whatever it is that lives in that cabinet, has been crying night and day for some sort of medicine and cannot get it to his mind. It was sometimes his way—the master’s, that is—to write his orders on a sheet of paper and throw it on the stair. We’ve had nothing else this week back; nothing but papers, and a closed door, and the very meals left there to be smuggled in when nobody was looking. Well, sir, every day, ay, and twice and thrice in the same day, there have been orders and complaints, and I have been sent flying to all the wholesale chemists in town. Every time I brought the stuff back, there would be another paper telling me to return it, because it was not pure, and another order to a different firm. This drug is wanted bitter bad, sir, whatever for.” “Have you any of these papers?” asked Mr. Utterson. Poole felt in his pocket and handed out a crumpled note, which the lawyer, bending nearer to the candle, carefully examined. Its contents ran thus: “Dr. Jekyll presents his compliments to Messrs. Maw. He assures them that their last sample is impure and quite useless for his present purpose. In the year 18—, Dr. J. purchased a somewhat large quantity from Messrs. M. He now begs them to search with the most sedulous care, and should any of the same quality be left, to forward it to him at once. Expense is no consideration. The importance of this to Dr. J. can hardly be exaggerated.” So far the letter had run composedly enough, but here with a sudden splutter of the pen, the writer’s emotion had broken loose. “For God’s sake,” he had added, “find me some of the old.” “This is a strange note,” said Mr. Utterson; and then sharply, “How do you come to have it open?” “The man at Maw’s was main angry, sir, and he threw it back to me like so much dirt,” returned Poole. “This is unquestionably the doctor’s hand, do you know?” resumed the lawyer. “I thought it looked like it,” said the servant rather sulkily; and then, with another voice, “But what matters hand of write?” he said. “I’ve seen him!” “Seen him?” repeated Mr. Utterson. “Well?”

316 Robert Louis Stevenson “That’s it!” said Poole. “It was this way. I came suddenly into the theatre from the garden. It seems he had slipped out to look for this drug or whatever it is; for the cabinet door was open, and there he was at the far end of the room digging among the crates. He looked up when I came in, gave a kind of cry, and whipped upstairs into the cabinet. It was but for one minute that I saw him, but the hair stood upon my head like quills. Sir, if that was my master, why had he a mask upon his face? If it was my master, why did he cry out like a rat, and run from me? I have served him long enough. And then . . .” The man paused and passed his hand over his face. “These are all very strange circumstances,” said Mr. Utterson, “but I think I begin to see daylight. Your master, Poole, is plainly seized with one of those maladies that both torture and deform the sufferer; hence, for aught I know, the alteration of his voice; hence the mask and the avoidance of his friends; hence his eagerness to find this drug, by means of which the poor soul retains some hope of ultimate recovery—God grant that he be not deceived! There is my explanation; it is sad enough, Poole, ay, and appalling to consider; but it is plain and natural, hangs well together, and delivers us from all exorbitant alarms.” “Sir,” said the butler, turning to a sort of mottled pallor, “that thing was not my master, and there’s the truth. My master”—here he looked round him and began to whisper—“is a tall, fine build of a man, and this was more of a dwarf.” Utterson attempted to protest. “O, sir,” cried Poole, “do you think I do not know my master after twenty years? Do you think I do not know where his head comes to in the cabinet door, where I saw him every morning of my life? No, sir, that thing in the mask was never Dr. Jekyll—God knows what it was, but it was never Dr. Jekyll; and it is the belief of my heart that there was murder done.” “Poole,” replied the lawyer, “if you say that, it will become my duty to make certain. Much as I desire to spare your master’s feelings, much as I am puzzled by this note which seems to prove him to be still alive, I shall consider it my duty to break in that door.” “Ah, Mr. Utterson, that’s talking!” cried the butler. “And now comes the second question,” resumed Utterson: “Who is going to do it?” “Why, you and me,” was the undaunted reply. “That’s very well said,” returned the lawyer; “and whatever comes of it, I shall make it my business to see you are no loser.” “There is an axe in the theatre,” continued Poole; “and you might take the kitchen poker for yourself.”

317TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE The lawyer took that rude but weighty instrument into his hand, and balanced it. “Do you know, Poole,” he said, looking up, “that you and I are about to place ourselves in a position of some peril?” “You may say so, sir, indeed,” returned the butler. “It is well, then, that we should be frank,” said the other. “We both think more than we have said; let us make a clean breast. This masked figure that you saw, did you recognize it?” “Well, sir, it went so quick, and the creature was so doubled up, that I could hardly swear to that,” was the answer. “But if you mean, was it Mr. Hyde?—why, yes, I think it was! You see it was much of the same bigness; and it had the same quick, light way with it; and then who else could have got in by the laboratory door? You have not forgot, sir, that at the time of the murder he had still the key with him? But that’s not all. I don’t know, Mr. Utterson, if ever you met this Mr. Hyde?” “Yes,” said the lawyer, “I once spoke with him.” “Then you must know as well as the rest of us that there was something queer about that gentleman—something that gave a man a turn—I don’t know rightly how to say it, sir, beyond this: that you felt it in your marrow kind of cold and thin.” “I own I felt something of what you describe,” said Mr. Utterson. “Quite so, sir,” returned Poole. “Well, when that masked thing like a monkey jumped from among the chemicals and whipped into the cabinet, it went down my spine like ice. O, I know it’s not evidence, Mr. Utterson; I’m book-learned enough for that; but a man has his feelings, and I give you my bible-word it was Mr. Hyde!” “Ay, ay,” said the lawyer. “My fears incline to the same point. Evil, I fear, founded—evil was sure to come—of that connection. Ay, truly, I believe you; I believe poor Harry is killed; and I believe his murderer (for what purpose, God alone can tell) is still lurking in his victim’s room. Well, let our name be vengeance. Call Bradshaw.” The footman came at the summons, very white and nervous. “Put yourself together, Bradshaw,” said the lawyer. “This suspense, I know, is telling upon all of you; but it is now our intention to make an end of it. Poole, here, and I are going to force our way into the cabinet. If all is well, my shoulders are broad enough to bear the blame. Meanwhile, lest anything should really be amiss, or any malefactor seek to escape by the back, you and the boy must go round the corner with a pair of good sticks and take your post at the laboratory door. We give you ten minutes, to get to your stations.” As Bradshaw left, the lawyer looked at his watch. “And now, Poole, let

318 Robert Louis Stevenson us get to ours,” he said; and taking the poker under his arm, led the way into the yard. The scud had banked over the moon, and it was now quite dark. The wind, which only broke in puffs and draughts into that deep well of building, tossed the light of the candle to and fro about their steps, until they came into the shelter of the theatre, where they sat down silently to wait. London hummed solemnly all around; but nearer at hand, the stillness was only broken by the sounds of a footfall moving to and fro along the cabinet floor. “So it will walk all day, sir,” whispered Poole; “ay, and the better part of the night. Only when a new sample comes from the chemist, there’s a bit of a break. Ah, it’s an ill conscience that’s such an enemy to rest! Ah, sir, there’s blood foully shed in every step of it! But hark again, a little closer—put your heart in your ears, Mr. Utterson, and tell me, is that the doctor’s foot?” The steps fell lightly and oddly, with a certain swing, for all they went so slowly; it was different indeed from the heavy creaking tread of Henry Jekyll. Utterson sighed. “Is there never anything else?” he asked. Poole nodded. “Once,” he said. “Once I heard it weeping!” “Weeping? How that?” said the lawyer, conscious of a sudden chill of horror. “Weeping like a woman or a lost soul,” said the butler. “I came away with that upon my heart, that I could have wept too.” But now the ten minutes drew to an end. Poole disinterred the axe from under a stack of packing straw; the candle was set upon the nearest table to light them to the attack; and they drew near with bated breath to where that patient foot was still going up and down, up and down, in the quiet of the night. “Jekyll,” cried Utterson, with a loud voice, “I demand to see you.” He paused a moment, but there came no reply. “I give you fair warning, our suspicions are aroused, and I must and shall see you,” he resumed; “if not by fair means, then by foul—if not of your consent, then by brute force!” “Utterson,” said the voice, “for God’s sake, have mercy!” “Ah, that’s not Jekyll’s voice—it’s Hyde’s!” cried Utterson. “Down with the door, Poole!” Poole swung the axe over his shoulder; the blow shook the building, and the red baize door leaped against the lock and hinges. A dismal screech, as of mere animal terror, rang from the cabinet. Up went the axe again, and again the panels crashed and the frame bounded; four times the blow fell; but the wood was tough and the fittings were of excellent

319TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE workmanship; and it was not until the fifth, that the lock burst in sunder and the wreck of the door fell inwards on the carpet. The besiegers, appalled by their own riot and the stillness that had succeeded, stood back a little and peered in. There lay the cabinet before their eyes in the quiet lamplight, a good fire glowing and chattering on the hearth, the kettle singing its thin strain, a drawer or two open, papers neatly set forth on the business table, and nearer the fire, the things laid out for tea: the quietest room, you would have said, and, but for the glazed presses full of chemicals, the most commonplace that night in London. Right in the midst there lay the body of a man sorely contorted and still twitching. They drew near on tiptoe, turned it on its back and beheld the face of Edward Hyde. He was dressed in clothes far too large for him, clothes of the doctor’s bigness; the cords of his face still moved with the semblance of life, but life was quite gone: and by the crushed phial in the hand and the strong smell of kernels that hung upon the air, Utterson knew that he was looking on the body of a self-destroyer. “We have come too late,” he said sternly, “whether to save or punish. Hyde is gone to his account; and it only remains for us to find the body of your master.” The far greater proportion of the building was occupied by the theatre, which filled almost the whole ground story and was lighted from above, and by the cabinet, which formed an upper story at one end and looked upon the court. A corridor joined the theatre to the door on the by- street; and with this the cabinet communicated separately by a second flight of stairs. There were besides a few dark closets and a spacious cellar. All these they now thoroughly examined. Each closet needed but a glance, for all were empty, and all, by the dust that fell from their doors, had stood long unopened. The cellar, indeed, was filled with crazy lumber, mostly dating from the times of the surgeon who was Jekyll’s predecessor; but even as they opened the door they were advertised of the uselessness of further search, by the fall of a perfect mat of cobweb which had for years sealed up the entrance. Nowhere was there any trace of Henry Jekyll, dead or alive. Poole stamped on the flags of the corridor. “He must be buried here,” he said, hearkening to the sound. “Or he may have fled,” said Utterson, and he turned to examine the door in the by-street. It was locked; and lying near by on the flags, they found the key, already stained with rust. “This does not look like use,” observed the lawyer.

320 Robert Louis Stevenson “Use!” echoed Poole. “Do you not see, sir, it is broken? Much as if a man had stamped on it.” “Ay,” continued Utterson, “and the fractures, too, are rusty.” The two men looked at each other with a scare. “This is beyond me, Poole,” said the lawyer. “Let us go back to the cabinet.” They mounted the stair in silence, and still with an occasional awestruck glance at the dead body, proceeded more thoroughly to examine the contents of the cabinet. At one table, there were traces of chemical work, various measured heaps of some white salt being laid on glass saucers, as though for an experiment in which the unhappy man had been prevented. “That is the same drug that I was always bringing him,” said Poole; and even as he spoke, the kettle with a startling noise boiled over. This brought them to the fireside, where the easy-chair was drawn cosily up, and the tea things stood ready to the sitter’s elbow, the very sugar in the cup. There were several books on a shelf; one lay beside the tea things open, and Utterson was amazed to find it a copy of a pious work, for which Jekyll had several times expressed a great esteem, annotated, in his own hand, with startling blasphemies. Next, in the course of their review of the chamber, the searchers came to the cheval-glass, into whose depths they looked with an involuntary horror. But it was so turned as to show them nothing but the rosy glow playing on the roof, the fire sparkling in a hundred repetitions along the glazed front of the presses, and their own pale and fearful countenances stooping to look in. “This glass has seen some strange things, sir,” whispered Poole. “And surely none stranger than itself,” echoed the lawyer in the same tones. “For what did Jekyll”—he caught himself up at the word with a start; and then conquering the weakness—“what could Jekyll want with it?” he said. “You may say that!” said Poole. Next they turned to the business table. On the desk, among the neat array of papers, a large envelope was uppermost, and bore, in the doctor’s hand, the name of Mr. Utterson. The lawyer unsealed it, and several enclosures fell to the floor. The first was a will, drawn in the same eccentric terms as the one which he had returned six months before, to serve as a testament in case of death and as a deed of gift in case of disappearance; but in place of the name of Edward Hyde, the lawyer, with indescribable amaze- ment, read the name of Gabriel John Utterson. He looked at Poole,

321TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE and then back at the paper, and last of all at the dead malefactor stretched upon the carpet. “My head goes round,” he said. “He has been all these days in possession; he had no cause to like me; he must have raged to see himself displaced; and he has not destroyed this document.” He caught up the next paper; it was a brief note in the doctor’s hand and dated at the top. “O Poole!” the lawyer cried, “he was alive and here this day. He cannot have been disposed of in so short a space; he must be still alive, he must have fled! And then, why fled? And how? And in that case, can we venture to declare this suicide? O, we must be careful. I foresee that we may yet involve your master in some dire catastrophe.” “Why don’t you read it, sir?” asked Poole. “Because I fear,” replied the lawyer solemnly. “God grant I have no cause for it!” And with that he brought the paper to his eyes and read as follows: My dear Utterson—When this shall fall into your hands, I shall have disappeared, under what circumstances I have not the penetration to foresee, but my instinct and all the circumstances of my nameless situation tell me that the end is sure and must be early. Go then, and first read the narrative which Lanyon warned me he was to place in your hands; and if you care to hear more, turn to the confession of Your unworthy and unhappy friend, Henry Jekyll “There was a third enclosure?” asked Utterson. “Here, sir,” said Poole, and gave into his hands a considerable packet sealed in several places. The lawyer put it in his pocket. “I would say nothing of this paper. If your master has fled or is dead, we may at least save his credit. It is now ten; I must go home and read these documents in quiet; but I shall be back before midnight, when we shall send for the police.” They went out, locking the door of the theatre behind them; and Utterson, once more leaving the servants gathered about the fire in the hall, trudged back to his office to read the two narratives in which this mystery was now to be explained. DR. LANYON’S NARRATIVE On the ninth of January, now four days ago, I received by the evening delivery a registered envelope, addressed in the hand of my colleague

322 Robert Louis Stevenson and old school companion, Henry Jekyll. I was a good deal surprised by this; for we were by no means in the habit of correspondence; I had seen the man, dined with him, indeed, the night before; and I could imagine nothing in our intercourse that should justify formality of registration. The contents increased my wonder; for this is how the letter ran: 10th December, 18—. Dear Lanyon, You are one of my oldest friends; and although we may have differed at times on scientific questions, I cannot remember, at least on my side, any break in our affection. There was never a day when, if you had said to me, ‘Jekyll, my life, my honour, my reason, depend upon you,’ I would not have sacrificed my left hand to help you. Lanyon, my life, my honour, my reason, are all at your mercy; if you fail me to-night I am lost. You might suppose, after this preface, that I am going to ask you for something dishonourable to grant. Judge for yourself. I want you to postpone all other engagements for to-night—ay, even if you were summoned to the bedside of an emperor; to take a cab, unless your carriage should be actually at the door; and with this letter in your hand for consultation, to drive straight to my house. Poole, my butler, has his orders; you will find him waiting your arrival with a locksmith. The door of my cabinet is then to be forced: and you are to go in alone; to open the glazed press (letter E) on the left hand, breaking the lock if it be shut; and to draw out, with all its contents as they stand, the fourth drawer from the top or (which is the same thing) the third from the bottom. In my extreme distress of mind, I have a morbid fear of misdirecting you; but even if I am in error, you may know the right drawer by its contents: some powders, a phial and a paper book. This drawer I beg of you to carry back with you to Cavendish Square exactly as it stands. That is the first part of the service: now for the second. You should be back, if you set out at once on the receipt of this, long before midnight; but I will leave you that amount of margin, not only in the fear of one of those obstacles that can neither be prevented nor foreseen, but because an hour when your servants are in bed is to be preferred for what will then remain to do. At midnight, then, I have to ask you to be alone in your consulting-room, to admit with your own hand into the house a man who will present himself in my name, and to place in his hands the drawer that you will have brought with you from my cabinet. Then you will have played your part and earned my gratitude completely. Five minutes afterwards, if you insist upon an explanation, you will have understood that these arrangements are of capital importance; and that by the neglect of one of them, fantastic as they must appear, you might have

323TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE charged your conscience with my death or the shipwreck of my reason. Confident as I am that you will not trifle with this appeal, my heart sinks and my hand trembles at the bare thought of such a possibility. Think of me at this hour, in a strange place, labouring under a blackness of distress that no fancy can exaggerate, and yet well aware that, if you will but punctually serve me, my troubles will roll away like a story that is told. Serve me, my dear Lanyon, and save Your friend, H. J. P.S. I had already sealed this up when a fresh terror struck upon my soul. It is possible that the postoffice may fail me, and this letter not come into your hands until to-morrow morning. In that case, dear Lanyon, do my errand when it shall be most convenient for you in the course of the day; and once more expect my messenger at midnight. It may then already be too late; and if that night passes without event, you will know that you have seen the last of Henry Jekyll. Upon the reading of this letter, I made sure my colleague was insane; but till that was proved beyond the possibility of doubt, I felt bound to do as he requested. The less I understood of this farrago, the less I was in a position to judge of its importance; and an appeal so worded could not be set aside without a grave responsibility. I rose accordingly from table, got into a hansom, and drove straight to Jekyll’s house. The butler was awaiting my arrival, he had received by the same post as mine a registered letter of instruction, and had sent at once for a locksmith and a carpenter. The tradesmen came while we were yet speaking; and we moved in a body to old Dr. Denman’s surgical theatre, from which (as you are doubtless aware) Jekyll’s private cabinet is most conveniently entered. The door was very strong, the lock excellent; the carpenter avowed he would have great trouble and have to do much damage, if force were to be used; and the locksmith was near despair. But this last was a handy fellow, and after two hours’ work, the door stood open. The press marked E was unlocked; and I took out the drawer, had it filled up with straw and tied in a sheet, and returned with it to Cavendish Square. Here I proceeded to examine its contents. The powders were neatly enough made up, but not with the nicety of the dispensing chemist; so that it was plain they were of Jekyll’s private manufacture: and when I opened one of the wrappers I found what seemed to me a simple crystalline salt of a white colour. The phial, to which I next turned my attention, might have been about half full of a blood-red liquor, which was highly pungent to the sense of smell and seemed to me to contain phosphorous and some volatile ether. At the other ingredients I could make no guess.

324 Robert Louis Stevenson The book was an ordinary version book and contained little but a series of dates. These covered a period of many years, but I observed that the entries ceased nearly a year ago and quite abruptly. Here and there a brief remark was appended to a date, usually no more than a single word: “double” occurring perhaps six times in a total of several hundred entries; and once very early in the list and followed by several marks of exclamation, “total failure!!!” All this, though it whetted my curiosity, told me little that was definite. Here were a phial of some tincture, a paper of some salt, and the record of a series of experiments that had led (like too many of Jekyll’s investigations) to no end of practical usefulness. How could the presence of these articles in my house affect either the honour, the sanity, or the life of my flighty colleague? If his messenger could go to one place, why could he not go to another? And even granting some impediment, why was this gentleman to be received by me in secret? The more I reflected the more convinced I grew that I was dealing with a case of cerebral disease; and though I dismissed my servants to bed, I loaded an old revolver, that I might be found in some posture of self- defence. Twelve o’clock had scarce rung out over London, ere the knocker sounded very gently on the door. I went myself at the summons, and found a small man crouching against the pillars of the portico. “Are you come from Dr. Jekyll?” I asked. He told me “yes” by a constrained gesture; and when I had bidden him enter, he did not obey me without a searching backward glance into the darkness of the square. There was a policeman not far off, advancing with his bull’s-eye open; and at the sight, I thought my visitor started and made greater haste. These particulars struck me, I confess, disagreeably; and as I followed him into the bright light of the consulting-room, I kept my hand ready on my weapon. Here, at last, I had a chance of clearly seeing him. I had never set eyes on him before, so much was certain. He was small, as I have said; I was struck besides with the shocking expression of his face, with his remarkable combination of great muscular activity and great apparent debility of constitution, and—last but not least—with the odd, subjective disturbance caused by his neighbourhood. This bore some resemblance to incipient rigour, and was accompanied by a marked sinking of the pulse. At the time, I set it down to some idiosyncratic, personal distaste, and merely wondered at the acuteness of the symptoms; but I have since had reason to believe the cause to lie much deeper in the nature of man, and to turn on some nobler hinge than the principle of hatred.

325TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE This person (who had thus, from the first moment of his entrance, struck in me what I can only describe as a disgustful curiosity) was dressed in a fashion that would have made an ordinary person laughable; his clothes, that is to say, although they were of rich and sober fabric, were enormously too large for him in every measurement—the trousers hanging on his legs and rolled up to keep them from the ground, the waist of the coat below his haunches, and the collar sprawling wide upon his shoulders. Strange to relate, this ludicrous accoutrement was far from moving me to laughter. Rather, as there was something abnormal and misbegotten in the very essence of the creature that now faced me— something seizing, surprising, and revolting—this fresh disparity seemed but to fit in with and to reinforce it; so that to my interest in the man’s nature and character, there was added a curiosity as to his origin, his life, his fortune and status in the world. These observations, though they have taken so great a space to be set down in, were yet the work of a few seconds. My visitor was, indeed, on fire with sombre excitement. “Have you got it?” he cried. “Have you got it?” And so lively was his impatience that he even laid his hand upon my arm and sought to shake me. I put him back, conscious at his touch of a certain icy pang along my blood. “Come, sir,” said I. “You forget that I have not yet the pleasure of your acquaintance. Be seated, if you please.” And I showed him an example, and sat down myself in my customary seat and with as fair an imitation of my ordinary manner to a patient, as the lateness of the hour, the nature of my preoccupations, and the horror I had of my visitor, would suffer me to muster. “I beg your pardon, Dr. Lanyon,” he replied civilly enough. “What you say is very well founded; and my impatience has shown its heels to my politeness. I come here at the instance of your colleague, Dr. Henry Jekyll, on a piece of business of some moment; and I understood . . .” he paused and put his hand to his throat, and I could see, in spite of his collected manner, that he was wrestling against the approaches of the hysteria—“I understood, a drawer . . .” But here I took pity on my visitor’s suspense, and some perhaps on my own growing curiosity. “There it is, sir,” said I, pointing to the drawer, where it lay on the floor behind a table and still covered with the sheet. He sprang to it, and then paused, and laid his hand upon his heart: I could hear his teeth grate with the convulsive action of his jaws; and his

326 Robert Louis Stevenson face was so ghastly to see that I grew alarmed both for his life and reason. “Compose yourself,” said I. He turned a dreadful smile to me, and as if with the decision of despair, plucked away the sheet. At sight of the contents, he uttered one loud sob of such immense relief that I sat petrified. And the next moment, in a voice that was already fairly well under control, “Have you a graduated glass?” he asked. I rose from my place with something of an effort and gave him what he asked. He thanked me with a smiling nod, measured out a few minims of the red tincture and added one of the powders. The mixture, which was at first of a reddish hue, began, in proportion as the crystals melted, to brighten in colour, to effervesce audibly, and to throw off small fumes of vapour. Suddenly and at the same moment, the ebullition ceased and the compound changed to a dark purple, which faded again more slowly to a watery green. My visitor, who had watched these metamorphoses with a keen eye, smiled, set down the glass upon the table, and then turned and looked upon me with an air of scrutiny. “And now,” said he, “to settle what remains. Will you be wise? Will you be guided? Will you suffer me to take this glass in my hand and to go forth from your house without further parley? Or has the greed of curiosity too much command of you? Think before you answer, for it shall be done as you decide. As you decide, you shall be left as you were before, and neither richer nor wiser, unless the sense of service rendered to a man in mortal distress may be counted as a kind of riches of the soul. Or, if you shall so prefer to choose, a new province of knowledge and new avenues to fame and power shall be laid open to you, here, in this room, upon the instant; and your sight shall be blasted by a prodigy to stagger the unbelief of Satan.” “Sir,” said I, affecting a coolness that I was far from truly possessing, “you speak enigmas, and you will perhaps not wonder that I hear you with no very strong impression of belief. But I have gone too far in the way of inexplicable services to pause before I see the end.” “It is well,” replied my visitor. “Lanyon, you remember your vows: what follows is under the seal of our profession. And now, you who have so long been bound to the most narrow and material views, you who have denied the virtue of transcendental medicine, you who have derided your superiors—behold!” He put the glass to his lips and drank at one gulp. A cry followed; he reeled, staggered, clutched at the table and held on, staring with injected

327TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE eyes, gasping with open mouth; and as I looked there came, I thought, a change—he seemed to swell—his face became suddenly black and the features seemed to melt and alter—and the next moment I had sprung to my feet and leaped back against the wall, my arm raised to shield me from that prodigy, my mind submerged in terror. “O God!” I screamed, and “O God!” again and again; for there before my eyes—pale and shaken, and half fainting, and groping before him with his hands, like a man restored from death—there stood Henry Jekyll! What he told me in the next hour, I cannot bring my mind to set on paper. I saw what I saw, I heard what I heard, and my soul sickened at it; and yet now when that sight has faded from my eyes, I ask myself if I believe it, and I cannot answer. My life is shaken to its roots; sleep has left me; the deadliest terror sits by me at all hours of the day and night; I feel that my days are numbered, and that I must die; and yet I shall die incredulous. As for the moral turpitude that man unveiled to me, even with tears of penitence, I cannot, even in memory, dwell on it without a start of horror. I will say but one thing, Utterson, and that (if you can bring your mind to credit it) will be more than enough. The creature who crept into my house that night was, on Jekyll’s own confession, known by the name of Hyde and hunted for in every corner of the land as the murderer of Carew. HASTIE LANYON H E N RY J E KYLL’S F U LL STATE M E NT OF TH E CAS E I was born in the year 18— to a large fortune, endowed besides with excellent parts, inclined by nature to industry, fond of the respect of the wise and good among my fellow-men, and thus, as might have been supposed, with every guarantee of an honourable and distinguished future. And indeed the worst of my faults was a certain impatient gaiety of disposition, such as has made the happiness of many, but such as I found it hard to reconcile with my imperious desire to carry my head high, and wear a more than commonly grave countenance before the public. Hence it came about that I concealed my pleasures; and that when I reached years of reflection, and began to look round me and take stock of my progress and position in the world, I stood already committed to a profound duplicity of life. Many a man would have even blazoned such irregularities as I was guilty of; but from the high views that I had set before me, I regarded and hid them with an almost morbid sense of shame. It was thus rather the exacting nature of my aspirations than any

328 Robert Louis Stevenson particular degradation in my faults that made me what I was, and, with even a deeper trench than in the majority of men, severed in me those provinces of good and ill which divide and compound man’s dual nature. In this case, I was driven to reflect deeply and inveterately on that hard law of life, which lies at the root of religion and is one of the most plentiful springs of distress. Though so profound a double-dealer, I was in no sense a hypocrite; both sides of me were in dead earnest; I was no more myself when I laid aside restraint and plunged in shame, than when I laboured, in the eye of day, at the furtherance of knowledge or the relief of sorrow and suffering. And it chanced that the direction of my scientific studies, which led wholly towards the mystic and the transcendental, reacted and shed a strong light on this consciousness of the perennial war among my members. With every day, and from both sides of my intelligence, the moral and the intellectual, I thus drew steadily nearer to that truth, by whose partial discovery I have been doomed to such a dreadful shipwreck: that man is not truly one, but truly two. I say two, because the state of my own knowledge does not pass beyond that point. Others will follow, others will outstrip me on the same lines; and I hazard the guess that man will be ultimately known for a mere polity of multifarious, incongruous and independent denizens. I for my part, from the nature of my life, advanced infallibly in one direction and in one direction only. It was on the moral side, and in my own person, that I learned to recognize the thorough and primitive duality of man; I saw that, of the two natures that contended in the field of my consciousness, even if I could rightly be said to be either, it was only because I was radically both; and from an early date, even before the course of my scientific discoveries had begun to suggest the most naked possibility of such a miracle, I had learned to dwell with pleasure, as a beloved day-dream, on the thought of the separation of these elements. If each, I told myself, could but be housed in separate identities, life would be relieved of all that was unbearable; the unjust might go his way, delivered from the aspirations and remorse of his more upright twin; and the just could walk steadfastly and securely on his upward path, doing the good things in which he found his pleasure, and no longer exposed to disgrace and penitence by the hands of this extraneous evil. It was the curse of mankind that these incongruous faggots were thus bound together—that in the agonized womb of consciousness, these polar twins should be continuously struggling. How, then, were they dissociated? I was so far in my reflections when, as I have said, a side-light began to shine upon the subject from the laboratory table. I began to perceive

329TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE more deeply than it has ever yet been stated, the trembling immateriality, the mistlike transcience, of this seemingly so solid body in which we walk attired. Certain agents I found to have the power to shake and to pluck back that fleshly vestment, even as a wind might toss the curtains of a pavilion. For two good reasons, I will not enter deeply into this scientific branch of my confession. First, because I have been made to learn that the doom and burden of our life is bound for ever on man’s shoulders, and when the attempt is made to cast it off, it but returns upon us with more unfamiliar and more awful pressure. Second, because, as my narrative will make, alas! too evident, my discoveries were incomplete. Enough, then, that I not only recognized my natural body for the mere aura and effulgence of certain of the powers that made up my spirit, but managed to compound a drug by which these powers should be dethroned from their supremacy, and a second form and countenance substituted, none the less natural to me because they were the expression, and bore the stamp, of lower elements in my soul. I hesitated long before I put this theory to the test of practice. I knew well that I risked death; for any drug that so potently controlled and shook the very fortress of identity, might by the least scruple of an overdose or at the least inopportunity in the moment of exhibition, utterly blot out that immaterial tabernacle which I looked to it to change. But the temptation of a discovery so singular and profound, at last overcame the suggestions of alarm. I had long since prepared my tincture; I purchased at once, from a firm of wholesale chemists, a large quantity of a particular salt which I knew, from my experiments, to be the last ingredient required; and late one accursed night, I compounded the elements, watched them boil and smoke together in the glass, and when the ebullition had subsided, with a strong glow of courage, drank off the potion. The most racking pangs succeeded: a grinding in the bones, deadly nausea, and a horror of the spirit that cannot be exceeded at the hour of birth or death. Then these agonies began swiftly to subside, and I came to myself as if out of a great sickness. There was something strange in my sensations, something indescribably new and, from its very novelty, incredibly sweet. I felt younger, lighter, happier in body; within I was conscious of a heady recklessness, a current of disordered sensual images running like a mill race in my fancy, a solution of the bonds of obligation, an unknown but not an innocent freedom of the soul. I knew myself, at the first breath of this new life, to be more wicked, tenfold more wicked, sold a slave to my original evil; and the thought, in that moment, braced

330 Robert Louis Stevenson and delighted me like wine. I stretched out my hands, exulting in the freshness of these sensations; and in the act, I was suddenly aware that I had lost in stature. There was no mirror, at that date, in my room; that which stands beside me as I write, was brought there later on for the very purpose of these transformations. The night, however, was far gone into the morning—the morning, black as it was, was nearly ripe for the conception of the day— the inmates of my house were locked in the most rigorous hours of slumber; and I determined, flushed as I was with hope and triumph, to venture in my new shape as far as to my bedroom. I crossed the yard, wherein the constellations looked down upon me, I could have thought, with wonder, the first creature of that sort that their unsleeping vigilance had yet disclosed to them; I stole through the corridors, a stranger in my own house; and coming to my room, I saw for the first time the appearance of Edward Hyde. I must here speak by theory alone, saying not that which I know, but that which I suppose to be most probable. The evil side of my nature, to which I had now transferred the stamping efficacy, was less robust and less developed than the good which I had just deposed. Again, in the course of my life, which had been, after all, nine-tenths a life of effort, virtue, and control, it had been much less exercised and much less exhausted. And hence, as I think, it came about that Edward Hyde was so much smaller, slighter, and younger than Henry Jekyll. Even as good shone upon the countenance of the one, evil was written broadly and plainly on the face of the other. Evil besides (which I must still believe to be the lethal side of man) had left on that body an imprint of deformity and decay. And yet when I looked upon that ugly idol in the glass, I was conscious of no repugnance, rather of a leap of welcome. This, too, was myself. It seemed natural and human. In my eyes it bore a livelier image of the spirit, it seemed more express and single, than the imperfect and divided countenance I had been hitherto accustomed to call mine. And in so far I was doubtless right. I have observed that when I wore the semblance of Edward Hyde, none could come near to me at first without a visible misgiving of the flesh. This, as I take it, was because all human beings, as we meet them, are commingled out of good and evil: and Edward Hyde, alone in the ranks of mankind, was pure evil. I lingered but a moment at the mirror: the second and conclusive experiment had yet to be attempted; it yet remained to be seen if I had lost my identity beyond redemption and must flee before daylight from a house that was no longer mine; and hurrying back to my cabinet, I once

331TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE more prepared and drank the cup, once more suffered the pangs of dissolution, and came to myself once more with the character, the stature, and the face of Henry Jekyll. That night I had come to the fatal cross-road. Had I approached my discovery in a more noble spirit, had I risked the experiment while under the empire of generous or pious aspirations, all must have been otherwise, and from these agonies of death and birth, I had come forth an angel instead of a fiend. The drug had no discriminating action; it was neither diabolical nor divine; it but shook the doors of the prison house of my disposition; and like the captives of Philippi, that which stood within ran forth. At that time my virtue slumbered; my evil, kept awake by ambition, was alert and swift to seize the occasion; and the thing that was projected was Edward Hyde. Hence, although I had now two characters as well as two appearances, one was wholly evil, and the other was still the old Henry Jekyll, that incongruous compound of whose reformation and improvement I had already learned to despair. The movement was thus wholly towards the worse. Even at that time, I had not yet conquered my aversion to the dryness of a life of study. I would still be merrily disposed at times; and as my pleasures were (to say the least) undignified, and as I was not only well known and highly considered, but growing towards the elderly man, this incoherency of my life was daily growing more unwelcome. It was on this side that my new power tempted me until I fell in slavery. I had but to drink the cup, to doff at once the body of the noted professor, and to assume, like a thick cloak, that of Edward Hyde. I smiled at the notion; it seemed to me at the time to be humourous; and I made my preparations with the most studious care. I took and furnished the house in Soho, to which Hyde was tracked by the police; and engaged as housekeeper a creature whom I well knew to be silent and unscrupulous. On the other side, I announced to my servants that a Mr. Hyde (whom I described) was to have full liberty and power about my house in the square; and to parry mishaps, I even called and made myself a familiar object, in my second character. I next drew up that will to which you so much objected; so that if anything befell me in the person of Dr. Jekyll, I could enter on that of Edward Hyde without pecuniary loss. And thus fortified, as I supposed, on every side, I began to profit by the strange immunities of my position. Men have before hired bravos to transact their crimes, while their own person and reputation sat under shelter. I was the first that ever did so for his pleasures. I was the first that could thus plod in the public eye

332 Robert Louis Stevenson with a load of genial respectability, and in a moment, like a schoolboy, strip off these lendings and spring headlong into the sea of liberty. But for me, in my impenetrable mantle, the safety was complete. Think of it—I did not even exist! Let me but escape into my laboratory door, give me but a second or two to mix and swallow the draught that I had always standing ready; and whatever he had done, Edward Hyde would pass away like the stain of breath upon a mirror; and there in his stead, quietly at home, trimming the midnight lamp in his study, a man who could afford to laugh at suspicion, would be Henry Jekyll. The pleasures which I made haste to seek in my disguise were, as I have said, undignified; I would scarce use a harder term. But in the hands of Edward Hyde, they soon began to turn towards the monstrous. When I would come back from these excursions, I was often plunged into a kind of wonder at my vicarious depravity. This familiar that I called out of my own soul, and sent forth alone to do his good pleasure, was a being inherently malign and villainous; his every act and thought centered on self; drinking pleasure with bestial avidity from any degree of torture to another; relentless like a man of stone. Henry Jekyll stood at times aghast before the acts of Edward Hyde; but the situation was apart from ordinary laws, and insidiously relaxed the grasp of conscience. It was Hyde, after all, and Hyde alone, that was guilty. Jekyll was no worse; he woke again to his good qualities seemingly unimpaired; he would even make haste, where it was possible, to undo the evil done by Hyde. And thus his conscience slumbered. Into the details of the infamy at which I thus connived (for even now I can scarce grant that I committed it) I have no design of entering; I mean but to point out the warnings and the successive steps with which my chastisement approached. I met with one accident which, as it brought on no consequence, I shall no more than mention. An act of cruelty to a child aroused against me the anger of a passer-by, whom I recognized the other day in the person of your kinsman; the doctor and the child’s family joined him; there were moments when I feared for my life; and at last, in order to pacify their too just resentment, Edward Hyde had to bring them to the door, and pay them in a cheque drawn in the name of Henry Jekyll. But this danger was easily eliminated from the future, by opening an account at another bank in the name of Edward Hyde himself; and when, by sloping my own hand backward, I had supplied my double with a signature, I thought I sat beyond the reach of fate. Some two months before the murder of Sir Danvers, I had been out

333TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE for one of my adventures, had returned at a late hour, and woke the next day in bed with somewhat odd sensations. It was in vain I looked about me; in vain I saw the decent furniture and tall proportions of my room in the square; in vain that I recognized the pattern of the bed curtains and the design of the mahogany frame; something still kept insisting that I was not where I was, that I had not wakened where I seemed to be, but in the little room in Soho where I was accustomed to sleep in the body of Edward Hyde. I smiled to myself, and, in my psychological way began lazily to Inquire into the elements of this illusion, occasionally, even as I did so, dropping back into a comfortable morning doze. I was still so engaged when, in one of my more wakeful moments, my eyes fell upon my hand. Now the hand of Henry Jekyll (as you have often remarked) was professional in shape and size: it was large, firm, white, and comely. But the hand which I now saw, clearly enough, in the yellow light of a mid-London morning, lying half shut on the bed clothes, was lean, corded, knuckly, of a dusky pallor, and thickly shaded with a swart growth of hair. It was the hand of Edward Hyde. I must have stared upon it for near half a minute, sunk as I was in the mere stupidity of wonder, before terror woke up in my breast as sudden and startling as the crash of cymbals; and bounding from my bed, I rushed to the mirror. At the sight that met my eyes, my blood was changed into something exquisitely thin and icy. Yes, I had gone to bed Henry Jekyll, I had awakened Edward Hyde. How was this to be explained? I asked myself; and then, with another bound of terror—how was it to be remedied? It was well on in the morning; the servants were up; all my drugs were in the cabinet—a long journey down two pair of stairs, through the back passage, across the open court and through the anatomical theatre, from where I was then standing horror-struck. It might indeed be possible to cover my face; but of what use was that, when I was unable to conceal the alteration in my stature? And then with an overpowering sweetness of relief, it came back upon my mind that the servants were already used to the coming and going of my second self. I had soon dressed, as well as I was able, in clothes of my own size; had soon passed through the house, where Bradshaw stared and drew back at seeing Mr. Hyde at such an hour and in such a strange array; and ten minutes later, Dr. Jekyll had returned to his own shape and was sitting down, with a darkened brow, to make a feint of breakfasting. Small indeed was my appetite. This inexplicable incident, this reversal of my previous experience, seemed, like the Babylonian finger on the wall, to be spelling out the letters of my judgment; and I began to reflect,

334 Robert Louis Stevenson more seriously than ever before on the issues and possibilities of my double existence. That part of me which I had the power of projecting, had lately been much exercised and nourished; it had seemed to me of late as though the body of Edward Hyde had grown in stature, as though (when I wore that form) I were conscious of a more generous tide of blood; and I began to spy a danger that, if this were much prolonged, the balance of my nature might be permanently overthrown, the power of voluntary change be forfeited, and the character of Edward Hyde become irrevocably mine. The power of the drug had not been always equally displayed. Once, very early in my career, it had totally failed me; since then I had been obliged on more than one occasion to double, and once, with infinite risk of death, to treble the amount; and these rare uncertainties had cast hitherto the sole shadow on my contentment. Now, however, and in the light of that morning’s accident, I was led to remark that whereas, in the beginning, the difficulty had been to throw off the body of Jekyll, it had of late gradually but decidedly transferred itself to the other side. All things therefore seemed to point to this: that I was slowly losing hold of my original and better self, and becoming slowly incorporated with my second and worse. Between these two, I now felt I had to choose. My two natures had memory in common, but all other faculties were most unequally shared between them. Jekyll (who was composite) now with the most sensitive apprehensions, now with a greedy gusto, projected and shared in the pleasures and adventures of Hyde; but Hyde was indifferent to Jekyll, or but remembered him as the mountain bandit remembers the cavern in which he conceals himself from pursuit. Jekyll had more than a father’s interest; Hyde had more than a son’s indifference. To cast in my lot with Jekyll, was to die to those appetites which I had long secretly indulged and had of late begun to pamper. To cast it in with Hyde, was to die to a thousand interests and aspirations, and to become, at a blow and for ever, despised and friendless. The bargain might appear unequal; but there was still another consideration in the scales; for while Jekyll would suffer smartingly in the fires of abstinence, Hyde would be not even conscious of all that he had lost. Strange as my circumstances were, the terms of this debate are as old and commonplace as man; much the same inducements and alarms cast the die for any tempted and trembling sinner; and it fell out with me, as it falls with so vast a majority of my fellows, that I chose the better part and was found wanting in the strength to keep to it.

335TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE Yes, I preferred the elderly and discontented doctor, surrounded by friends and cherishing honest hopes; and bade a resolute farewell to the liberty, the comparative youth, the light step, leaping impulses and secret pleasures, that I had enjoyed in the disguise of Hyde. I made this choice perhaps with some unconscious reservation, for I neither gave up the house in Soho, nor destroyed the clothes of Edward Hyde, which still lay ready in my cabinet. For two months, however, I was true to my determination; for two months I led a life of such severity as I had never before attained to, and enjoyed the compensations of an approving conscience. But time began at last to obliterate the freshness of my alarm; the praises of conscience began to grow into a thing of course; I began to be tortured with throes and longings, as of Hyde struggling after freedom; and at last, in an hour of moral weakness, I once again compounded and swallowed the transforming draught. I do not suppose that, when a drunkard reasons with himself upon his vice, he is once out of five hundred times affected by the dangers that he runs through his brutish, physical insensibility; neither had I, long as I had considered my position, made enough allowance for the complete moral insensibility and insensate readiness to evil, which were the leading characters of Edward Hyde. Yet it was by these that I was punished. My devil had been long caged, he came out roaring. I was conscious, even when I took the draught, of a more unbridled, a more furious propensity to ill. It must have been this, I suppose, that stirred in my soul that tempest of impatience with which I listened to the civilities of my unhappy victim; I declare, at least, before God, no man morally sane could have been guilty of that crime upon so pitiful a provocation; and that I struck in no more reasonable spirit than that in which a sick child may break a plaything. But I had voluntarily stripped myself of all those balancing instincts by which even the worst of us continues to walk with some degree of steadiness among temptations; and in my case, to be tempted, however slightly, was to fall. Instantly the spirit of hell awoke in me and raged. With a transport of glee, I mauled the unresisting body, tasting delight from every blow; and it was not till weariness had begun to succeed, that I was suddenly, in the top fit of my delirium, struck through the heart by a cold thrill of terror. A mist dispersed; I saw my life to be forfeit; and fled from the scene of these excesses, at once glorifying and trembling, my lust of evil gratified and stimulated, my love of life screwed to the topmost peg. I ran to the house in Soho, and (to make assurance doubly sure) destroyed my

336 Robert Louis Stevenson papers; thence I set out through the lamplit streets, in the same divided ecstasy of mind, gloating on my crime, light-headedly devising others in the future, and yet still hastening and still hearkening in my wake for the steps of the avenger. Hyde had a song upon his lips as he compounded the draught, and as he drank it, pledged the dead man. The pangs of transformation had not done tearing him, before Henry Jekyll, with streaming tears of gratitude and remorse, had fallen upon his knees and lifted his clasped hands to God. The veil of self-indulgence was rent from head to foot. I saw my life as a whole: I followed it up from the days of childhood, when I had walked with my father’s hand, and through the self-denying toils of my professional life, to arrive again and again, with the same sense of unreality, at the damned horrors of the evening. I could have screamed aloud; I sought with tears and prayers to smother down the crowd of hideous images and sounds with which my memory swarmed against me; and still, between the petitions, the ugly face of my iniquity stared into my soul. As the acuteness of this remorse began to die away, it was succeeded by a sense of joy. The problem of my conduct was solved. Hyde was thenceforth impossible; whether I would or not, I was now confined to the better part of my existence; and O, how I rejoiced to think it! with what willing humility, I embraced anew the restrictions of natural life! With what sincere renunciation, I locked the door by which I had so often gone and come, and ground the key under my heel! T h e n e x t d ay, c a m e t h e n e w s t h a t t h e m u rd e r h a d b e e n overlooked, that the guilt of Hyde was patent to the world, and that the victim was a man high in public estimation. It was not only a crime, it had been a tragic folly. I think I was glad to know it; I think I was glad to have my better impulses thus buttressed and guarded by the terrors of the scaffold. Jekyll was now my city of refuge; let but Hyde peep out an instant, and the hands of all men would be raised to take and slay him. I resolved in my future conduct to redeem the past; and I can say with honesty that my resolve was fruitful of some good. You know yourself how earnestly in the last months of last year, I laboured to relieve suffering; you know that much was done for others, and that the days passed quietly, almost happily for myself. Nor can I truly say that I wearied of this beneficent and innocent life; I think instead that I daily enjoyed it more completely; but I was still cursed with my duality of purpose; and as the first edge of my penitence wore off, the lower side of me, so long indulged, so recently chained down, began to growl for licence. Not that

337TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE I dreamed of resuscitating Hyde; the bare idea of that would startle me to frenzy: no, it was in my own person, that I was once more tempted to trifle with my conscience; and it was as an ordinary secret sinner, that I at last fell before the assaults of temptation. There comes an end to all things; the most capacious measure is filled at last; and this brief condescension to my evil finally destroyed the balance of my soul. And yet I was not alarmed; the fall seemed natural, like a return to the old days before I had made my discovery. It was a fine, clear, January day, wet underfoot where the frost had melted, but cloudless overhead; and the Regent’s Park was full of winter chirrupings and sweet with spring odours. I sat in the sun on a bench; the animal within me licking the chops of memory; the spiritual side a little drowsed, promising subsequent penitence, but not yet moved to begin. After all, I reflected, I was like my neighbours; and then I smiled, comparing myself with other men, comparing my active goodwill with the lazy cruelty of their neglect. And at the very moment of that vainglorious thought, a qualm came over me, a horrid nausea and the most deadly shuddering. These passed away, and left me faint; and then as in its turn the faintness subsided, I began to be aware of a change in the temper of my thoughts, a greater boldness, a contempt of danger, a solution of the bonds of obligation. I looked down; my clothes hung formlessly on my shrunken limbs; the hand that lay on my knee was corded and hairy. I was once more Edward Hyde. A moment before I had been safe of all men’s respect, wealthy, beloved—the cloth laying for me in the dining-room at home; and now I was the common quarry of mankind, hunted, houseless, a known murderer, thrall to the gallows. My reason wavered, but it did not fail me utterly. I have more than once observed that, in my second character, my faculties seemed sharp- ened to a point and my spirits more tensely elastic; thus it came about that, where Jekyll perhaps might have succumbed, Hyde rose to the importance of the moment. My drugs were in one of the presses of my cabinet; how was I to reach them? That was the problem that (crushing my temples in my hands) I set myself to solve. The laboratory door I had closed. If I sought to enter by the house, my own servants would consign me to the gallows. I saw I must employ another hand, and thought of Lanyon. How was he to be reached? How persuaded? Supposing that I escaped capture in the streets, how was I to make my way into his pres- ence? And how should I, an unknown and displeasing visitor, prevail on the famous physician to rifle the study of his colleague, Dr. Jekyll? Then I

338 Robert Louis Stevenson remembered that of my original character, one part remained to me: I could write my own hand; and once I had conceived that kindling spark, the way that I must follow became lighted up from end to end. Thereupon I arranged my clothes as best I could, and summoning a passing hansom, drove to a hotel in Portland Street, the name of which I chanced to remember. At my appearance (which was indeed comical enough, however tragic a fate these garments covered) the driver could not conceal his mirth. I gnashed my teeth upon him with a gust of devilish fury; and the smile withered from his face—happily for him—yet more happily for myself, for in another instant I had certainly dragged him from his perch. At the inn, as I entered, I looked about me with so black a countenance as made the attendants tremble; not a look did they exchange in my presence; but obsequiously took my orders, led me to a private room, and brought me wherewithal to write. Hyde in danger of his life was a creature new to me; shaken with inordinate anger, strung to the pitch of murder, lusting to inflict pain. Yet the creature was astute; mastered his fury with a great effort of the will; composed his two important letters, one to Lanyon and one to Poole; and that he might receive actual evidence of their being posted, sent them out with directions that they should be registered. Thenceforward, he sat all day over the fire in the private room, gnawing his nails; there he dined, sitting alone with his fears, the waiter visibly quailing before his eye; and thence, when the night was fully come, he set forth in the corner of a closed cab, and was driven to and fro about the streets of the city. He, I say—I cannot say, I. That child of Hell had nothing human; nothing lived in him but fear and hatred. And when at last, thinking the driver had begun to grow suspicious, he discharged the cab and ventured on foot, attired in his misfitting clothes, an object marked out for observation, into the midst of the nocturnal passengers, these two base passions raged within him like a tempest. He walked fast, hunted by his fears, chattering to himself, skulking through the less frequented thoroughfares, counting the minutes that still divided him from midnight. Once a woman spoke to him, offering, I think, a box of lights. He smote her in the face, and she fled. When I came to myself at Lanyon’s, the horror of my old friend perhaps affected me somewhat: I do not know; it was at least but a drop in the sea to the abhorrence with which I looked back upon these hours. A change had come over me. It was no longer the fear of the gallows, it was the horror of being Hyde that racked me. I received Lanyon’s condem- nation partly in a dream; it was partly in a dream that I came home to my

339TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE own house and got into bed. I slept after the prostration of the day, with a stringent and profound slumber which not even the nightmares that wrung me could avail to break. I awoke in the morning shaken, weakened, but refreshed. I still hated and feared the thought of the brute that slept within me, and I had not of course forgotten the appalling dangers of the day before; but I was once more at home, in my own house and close to my drugs; and gratitude for my escape shone so strong in my soul that it almost rivalled the brightness of hope. I was stepping leisurely across the court after breakfast, drinking the chill of the air with pleasure, when I was seized again with those indescribable sensations that heralded the change; and I had but the time to gain the shelter of my cabinet, before I was once again raging and freezing with the passions of Hyde. It took on this occasion a double dose to recall me to myself; and alas! Six hours after, as I sat looking sadly in the fire, the pangs returned, and the drug had to be readministered. In short, from that day forth it seemed only by a great effort of gymnastics, and only under the immediate stimulation of the drug, that I was able to wear the countenance of Jekyll. At all hours of the day and night, I would be taken with the premonitory shudder; above all, if I slept, or even dozed for a moment in my chair, it was always as Hyde that I awakened. Under the strain of this continually impending doom and by the sleeplessness to which I now condemned myself, ay, even beyond what I had thought possible to man, I became, in my own person, a creature eaten up and emptied by fever, languidly weak both in body and mind, and solely occupied by one thought: the horror of my other self. But when I slept, or when the virtue of the medicine wore off, I would leap almost without transition (for the pangs of transformation grew daily less marked) into the possession of a fancy brimming with images of terror, a soul boiling with causeless hatreds, and a body that seemed not strong enough to contain the raging energies of life. The powers of Hyde seemed to have grown with the sickliness of Jekyll. And certainly the hate that now divided them was equal on each side. With Jekyll, it was a thing of vital instinct. He had now seen the full deformity of that creature that shared with him some of the phenomena of consciousness, and was co-heir with him to death: and beyond these links of community, which in them- selves made the most poignant part of his distress, he thought of Hyde, for all his energy of life, as of something not only hellish but inorganic. This was the shocking thing; that the slime of the pit seemed to utter cries and voices; that the amorphous dust gesticulated and sinned; that what was dead, and had no shape, should usurp the offices of life. And

340 Robert Louis Stevenson this again, that that insurgent horror was knit to him closer than a wife, closer than an eye; lay caged in his flesh, where he heard it mutter and felt it struggle to be born; and at every hour of weakness, and in the confidence of slumber, prevailed against him, and deposed him out of life. The hatred of Hyde for Jekyll, was of a different order. His terror of the gallows drove him continually to commit temporary suicide, and return to his subordinate station of a part instead of a person; but he loathed the necessity, he loathed the despondency into which Jekyll was now fallen, and he resented the dislike with which he was himself regarded. Hence the apelike tricks that he would play me, scrawling in my own hand blasphemies on the pages of my books, burning the letters and destroying the portrait of my father; and indeed, had it not been for his fear of death, he would long ago have ruined himself in order to involve me in the ruin. But his love of life is wonderful; I go further: I, who sicken and freeze at the mere thought of him, when I recall the abjection and passion of this attachment, and when I know how he fears my power to cut him off by suicide, I find it in my heart to pity him. It is useless, and the time awfully fails me, to prolong this description; no one has ever suffered such torments, let that suffice; and yet even to these, habit brought—no, not alleviation—but a certain callousness of soul, a certain acquiescence of despair; and my punishment might have gone on for years, but for the last calamity which has now fallen, and which has finally severed me from my own face and nature. My provision of the salt, which had never been renewed since the date of the first experiment, began to run low. I sent out for a fresh supply, and mixed the draught; the ebullition followed, and the first change of colour, not the second; I drank it and it was without efficiency. You will learn from Poole how I have had London ransacked: it was in vain; and I am now persuaded that my first supply was impure, and that it was that unknown impurity which lent efficacy to the draught. About a week has passed, and I am now finishing this statement under the influence of the last of the old powders. This, then, is the last time, short of a miracle, that Henry Jekyll can think his own thoughts or see his own face (now how sadly altered!) in the glass. Nor must I delay too long to bring my writing to an end; for if my narrative has hitherto escaped destruction, it has been by a combination of great prudence and great good luck. Should the throes of change take me in the act of writing it, Hyde will tear it in pieces; but if some time shall have elapsed after I have laid it by, his wonderful selfishness and circumscription to the mo- ment will probably save it once again from the action of his apelike spite.

341TH E STRANG E CAS E OF DR. J E KYLL AN D M R. HYDE And indeed the doom that is closing on us both, has already changed and crushed him. Half an hour from now, when I shall again and for ever reindue that hated personality, I know how I shall sit shuddering and weeping in my chair, or continue, with the most strained and fearstruck ecstasy of listening, to pace up and down this room (my last earthly refuge) and give ear to every sound of menace. Will Hyde die upon the scaffold? Or will he find courage to release himself at the last moment? God knows; I am careless; this is my true hour of death, and what is to follow concerns another than myself. Here then, as I lay down the pen and proceed to seal up my confession, I bring the life of that unhappy Henry Jekyll to an end.

342 Mark Twain 1835–1910 Descended from a line of westward-moving Virginians who“never forgot that they were gentry,” Samuel Langhorne Clemens was born November 30, 1835, in Florida, Missouri. Four years later the family moved to Hannibal, Missouri. This small town on the Mississippi would be Sam Clemens’ great magic place, the scene of Tom Sawyer and The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. His father died in 1847. The tallish, sandy-haired boy with the sharp, gray-blue eyes stayed in school for a while (he got little enough of it) and became an apprentice printer in Hannibal. In 1853 his wanderings began. As a journeyman printer he worked in St. Louis, New York City, and Philadelphia, and later on his brother Orion’s paper in Iowa. On a trip down the Mississippi in 1856, he managed to get himself taken on as an apprentice pilot. He followed the lordly trade of river-boat piloting until the Civil War all but ended traffic in 1861. That year he spent “an inglorious few weeks” in the Confederate militia. Then he joined his brother Orion on a trip to Nevada Terri- tory, tried timber speculation and silver mining, and got a job as a feature writer on the Virginia City Territorial Enterprise. From an old fellow pilot on the river he borrowed his pen name, Mark Twain (a leadsman’s call meaning two fathoms—safe or bold water). Mov- Notes from the artist: “Mark Twain and two of the ‘characters’ from his short story The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County. A trim, athletic swamp frog leaps easily above ‘Dan’l Webster,’ bloated and leaden with quail shot.”

344 Mark Twain ing to San Francisco in 1864, he worked for the Call and contributed to Bret Harte’s Californian. The story of Jim Smiley and his jumping frog, printed in New York, gave him his first national notice. When he got back from a voyage to Hawaii, a trial or two in San Francisco convinced him that he could do well at lecturing. Twain took ship by way of the isthmus for New York. There, in 1867, he published his first book, The Celebrated Jumping Frog of Calaveras County, and Other Sketches. That same year he traveled in Europe and the Holy Land, sending back articles that would later grow into Innocents Abroad. His name was made. He married Olivia Langdon in 1870 and after a stay in Buffalo, New York, he lived in Hartford, Connecticut, until 1891, then in Europe, Redding, Connecticut, and New York City. About 1893 the failure of his business speculations sent him on a lecture tour around the world. With the proceeds from this trip and two new books, Twain, like Defoe, paid off his creditors to the last dollar. His most famous books—Tom Sawyer, Huckleberry Finn, Life on the Mississippi, The Prince and the Pauper, A Connecticut Yankee in King Arthur’s Court, and others—were written in the 1870’s and 1880’s. He died on April 21, 1910. Twain began as a humorist of the old frontier school and grewinto a satirist. Toward the end of his life, the satire turned almost as grim as Swift’s. The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg was published in 1900 and thus belongs among his later works. Like Henry Adams and Walt Whitman, he watched the America he had known vanish after the Civil War. He detested the coarse scramble for money that accompanied the expansion of the 1870’s and 1880’s. He saw what this had done to the old American sense of community. “Hadleyburg” is the other side of Tom Sawyer, as cynical as the earlier book is idealized. Notice that when Twain set out to show the corruption of a small town, he did it in terms of money. This was his sense of what had happened to America; but only an American writer would conceive of attitudes toward money as central to morality. Even Balzac might have been a little startled at a whole community of swindlers. What? Not one honest man or woman in the whole town of Hadleyburg? Or only one? But the story, of course, is satire, and takes the liberties of satire. Twain’s mastery makes us believe it. It has as many turns of plot as

345Mark Twain a Chinese drama. Each time we think we have come to the last door, another opens in front of us; and each door reveals some harshly comic spectacle of human weakness or greed, hypocrisy or betrayal. We witness the moral death of a community in which every value is reversed and even well-meant actions have cruel effects. Is this Twain’s judgment on morality itself? In the end, nothing is changed but the name of the town and its motto. In the old motto, LEAD US NOT INTO TEMPTATION, one word has been left out.

346 The Man That Corrupted Hadleyburg t was many years ago. Hadleyburg was the most honest and upright town in all the region round about. It had kept that reputation unsmirched during three generations, and was prouder of it than of any other of its possessions. It was so proud of it, and so anxious to insure its perpetuation, that it began to teach the principles of honest dealing to its babies in the cradle, and made the like teachings the staple of their culture thenceforward through all the years devoted to their education. Also, throughout the formative years temptations were kept out of the way of the young people, so that their honesty could have every chance to harden and solidify, and become a part of their very bone. The neighboring towns were jealous of this honorable supremacy, and affected to sneer at Hadleyburg’s pride in it and call it vanity; but all the same they were obliged to acknowledge that Hadleyburg was in reality an incorruptible town; and if pressed they would also acknowledge that the mere fact that a young man hailed from Hadleyburg was all the recommendation he needed when he went forth from his natal town to seek for responsible employment. But at last, in the drift of time, Hadleyburg had the ill luck to offend a passing stranger—possibly without knowing it, certainly without caring, for Hadleyburg was sufficient unto itself, and cared not a rap for strangers or their opinions. Still, it would have been well to make an exception in this one’s case, for he was a bitter man and revengeful. All through his wanderings during a whole year he kept his injury in mind, and gave all his leisure moments to trying to invent a compensating satisfaction for it. He contrived many plans, and all of them were good, but none of them was quite sweeping enough; the poorest of them would hurt a great

347TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG many individuals, but what he wanted was a plan which would comprehend the entire town, and not let so much as one person escape unhurt. At last he had a fortunate idea, and when it fell into his brain it lit up his whole head with an evil joy. He began to form a plan at once, saying to himself, “That is the thing to do—I will corrupt the town.” Six months later he went to Hadleyburg, and arrived in a buggy at the house of the old cashier of the bank about ten at night. He got a sack out of the buggy, shouldered it, and staggered with it through the cottage yard, and knocked at the door. A woman’s voice said “Come in,” and he entered, and set his sack behind the stove in the parlor, saying politely to the old lady who sat reading the Missionary Herald by the lamp: “Pray keep your seat, madam, I will not disturb you. There—now it is pretty well concealed; one would hardly know it was there. Can I see your husband a moment, madam?” No, he was gone to Brixton, and might not return before morning. “Very well, madam, it is no matter. I merely wanted to leave that sack in his care, to be delivered to the rightful owner when he shall be found. I am a stranger; he does not know me; I am merely passing through the town tonight to discharge a matter which has been long in my mind. My errand is now completed, and I go pleased and a little proud, and you will never see me again. There is a paper attached to the sack which will explain everything. Good night, madam.” The old lady was afraid of the mysterious big stranger, and was glad to see him go. But her curiosity was roused, and she went straight to the sack and brought away the paper. It began as follows: TO BE PUBLISHED: or, the right man sought out by private inquiry— either will answer. This sack contains gold coin weighing a hundred and sixty pounds four ounces— “Mercy on us, and the door not locked!” Mrs. Richards flew to it all in a tremble and locked it, then pulled down the window shades and stood frightened, worried, and wondering if there was anything else she could do toward making herself and the money more safe. She listened awhile for burglars, then surrendered to curiosity and went back to the lamp and finished reading the paper: I am a foreigner, and am presently going back to my own country, to remain there permanently. I am grateful to America for what I have re- ceived at her hands during my long stay under her flag; and to one of her citizens—a citizen of Hadleyburg—I am especially grateful for a

348 Mark Twain great kindness done me a year or two ago. Two great kindnesses, in fact. I will explain. I was a gambler. I say I WAS. I was a ruined gambler. I arrived in this village at night, hungry and without a penny. I asked for help—in the dark; I was ashamed to beg in the light I begged of the right man. He gave me twenty dollars—that is to say, he gave me life, as I considered it. He also gave me fortune; for out of that money I have made myself rich at the gaming table. And finally, a remark which he made to me has remained with me to this day, and has at last conquered me; and in conquering has saved the remnant of my morals: I shall gamble no more. Now I have no idea who that man was, but I want him found, and I want him to have this money, to give away, throw away, or keep, as he pleases. It is merely my way of testifying my gratitude to him. If I could stay, I would find him myself; but no matter, he will be found. This is an honest town, an incorruptible town, and I know I can trust it without fear. This man can be identified by the remark which he made to me; I feel persuaded that he will remember it. And now my plan is this: If you prefer to conduct the inquiry privately, do so. Tell the contents of this present writing to anyone who is likely to be the right man. If he shall answer, “I am the man; the remark I made was so-and-so,” apply the test—to wit: open the sack, and in it you will find a sealed envelope containing that remark. If the remark mentioned by the candidate tallies with it, give him the money, and ask no further questions, for he is certainly the right man. But if you shall prefer a public inquiry, then publish this present writing in the local paper—with these instructions added, to wit: Thirty days from now, let the candidate appear at the town hall at eight in the evening (Friday), and hand his remark, in a sealed envelope, to the Rev. Mr. Burgess (if he will be kind enough to act); and let Mr. Burgess there and then destroy the seals of the sack, open it, and see if the remark is correct: if correct, let the money be delivered, with my sincere gratitude, to my benefactor thus identified. Mrs. Richards sat down, gently quivering with excitement, and was soon lost in thinkings—after this pattern: “What a strange thing it is! . . . And what a fortune for that kind man who set his bread afloat upon the waters! . . . If it had only been my husband that did it!—for we are so poor, so old and poor! . . .” Then, with a sigh—“But it was not my Edward; no, it was not he that gave a stranger twenty dollars. It is a pity, too; I see it now. . . .” Then, with a shudder—“But it is gambler’s money! the wages of sin: we couldn’t take it; we couldn’t touch it. I don’t like to be near it; it seems a defilement.” She moved to a farther chair. . . . “I wish Edward would come, and take it to the bank; a burglar might come at any moment; it is dreadful to be here all alone with it.”

349TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG At eleven Mr. Richards arrived, and while his wife was saying, “I am so glad you’ve come!” he was saying, “I’m so tired—tired clear out; it is dreadful to be poor, and have to make these dismal journeys at my time of life. Always at the grind, grind, grind, on a salary—another man’s slave, and he sitting at home in his slippers, rich and comfortable.” “I am so sorry for you, Edward, you know that; but be comforted: we have our livelihood; we have our good name—” “Yes, Mary, and that is everything. Don’t mind my talk—it’s just a moment’s irritation and doesn’t mean anything. Kiss me—there, it’s all gone now, and I am not complaining any more. What have you been getting? What’s in the sack?” Then his wife told him the great secret. It dazed him for a moment; then he said: “It weighs a hundred and sixty pounds? Why, Mary, it’s for-ty thousand dollars—think of it—a whole fortune! Not ten men in this village are worth that much. Give me the paper.” He skimmed through it and said: “Isn’t it an adventure! Why, it’s a romance; it’s like the impossible things one reads about in books, and never sees in life.” He was well stirred up now; cheerful, even gleeful. He tapped his old wife on the cheek, and said, humorously, “Why, we’re rich, Mary, rich; all we’ve got to do is to bury the money and burn the papers. If the gambler ever comes to inquire, well merely look coldly upon him and say: ‘What is this nonsense you are talking? We have never heard of you and your sack of gold before’; and then he would look foolish, and—” “And in the meantime, while you are running on with your jokes, the money is still here, and it is fast getting along toward burglar-time.” “True. Very well, what shall we do—make the inquiry private? No, not that: it would spoil the romance. The public method is better. Think what a noise it will make! And it will make all the other towns jealous; for no stranger would trust such a thing to any town but Hadleyburg, and they know it. It’s a great card for us. I must get to the printing office now, or I shall be too late.” “But stop—stop—don’t leave me here alone with it, Edward!” But he was gone. For only a little while, however. Not far from his own house he met the editor-proprietor of the paper, and gave him the document, and said, “Here is a good thing for you, Cox—put it in.” “It may be too late, Mr. Richards, but I’ll see.” At home again he and his wife sat down to talk the charming mystery over; they were in no condition for sleep. The first question was, Who

350 Mark Twain could the citizen have been who gave the stranger the twenty dollars? It seemed a simple one; both answered it in the same breath. “Barclay Goodson.” “Yes,” said Richards, “he could have done it, and it would have been like him, but there’s not another in the town.” “Everybody will grant that, Edward—grant it privately, anyway. For six months, now, the village has been its own proper self once more— honest, narrow, self-righteous, and stingy.” “It is what he always called it, to the day of his death—said it right out publicly, too.” “Yes, and he was hated for it.” “Oh, of course; but he didn’t care. I reckon he was the best-hated man among us, except the Reverend Burgess.” “Well, Burgess deserves it—he will never get another congregation here. Mean as the town is, it knows how to estimate him. Edward, doesn’t it seem odd that the stranger should appoint Burgess to deliver the money?” “Well, yes—it does. That is—that is—” “Why so much that-is-ing? Would you select him?” “Mary, maybe the stranger knows him better than this village does.” “Much that would help Burgess!” The husband seemed perplexed for an answer; the wife kept a steady eye upon him, and waited. Finally Richards said, with the hesitancy of one who is making a statement which is likely to encounter doubt: “Mary, Burgess is not a bad man.” His wife was certainly surprised. “Nonsense!” she exclaimed. “He is not a bad man. I know. The whole of his unpopularity had its foundation in that one thing—the thing that made so much noise.” “That ‘one thing,’ indeed! As if that ‘one thing’ wasn’t enough, all by itself.” “Plenty. Plenty. Only he wasn’t guilty of it.” “How you talk! Not guilty of it! Everybody knows he was guilty.” “Mary, I give you my word—he was innocent.” “I can’t believe it, and I don’t. How do you know?” “It is a confession. I am ashamed, but I will make it. I was the only man who knew he was innocent. I could have saved him, and—and— well, you know how the town was wrought up—I hadn’t the pluck to do it. It would have turned everybody against me. I felt mean, ever so mean; but I didn’t dare; I hadn’t the manliness to face that.”

351TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG Mary looked troubled, and for a while was silent. Then she said, stammeringly: “I—I don’t think it would have done for you to—to—One mustn’t—er— public opinion—one has to be so careful—so—” It was a difficult road, and she got mired; but after a little she got started again. “It was a great pity, but—Why, we couldn’t afford it, Edward—we couldn’t indeed. Oh, I wouldn’t have had you do it for anything!” “It would have lost us the good will of so many people, Mary; and then—and then—” “What troubles me now is what he thinks of us, Edward.” “He? He doesn’t suspect that I could have saved him.” “Oh,” exclaimed the wife, in a tone of relief, “I am glad of that. As long as he doesn’t know that you could have saved him, he—he—well, that makes it a great deal better. Why, I might have known he didn’t know, because he is always trying to be friendly with us, as little encouragement as we give him. More than once people have twitted me with it. There’s the Wilsons, and the Wilcoxes, and the Harknesses, they take a mean pleasure in saying, ‘Your friend Burgess,’ because they know it pesters me. I wish he wouldn’t persist in liking us so; I can’t think why he keeps it up.” “I can explain it. It’s another confession. When the thing was new and hot, and the town made a plan to ride him on a rail, my conscience hurt me so that I couldn’t stand it, and I went privately and gave him notice, and he got out of the town and stayed out till it was safe to come back.” “Edward! If the town had found it out—” “Don’t! It scares me yet to think of it. I repented of it the minute it was done; and I was even afraid to tell you, lest your face might betray it to somebody. I didn’t sleep any that night, for worrying. But after a few days I saw that no one was going to suspect me, and after that I got to feeling glad I did it. And I feel glad yet, Mary—glad through and through.” “So do I, now, for it would have been a dreadful way to treat him. Yes, I’m glad; for really you did owe him that, you know. But, Edward, suppose it should come out yet, some day!” “It won’t.” “Why?” “Because everybody thinks it was Goodson.” “Of course they would!” “Certainly. And of course he didn’t care. They persuaded poor old Sawlsberry to go and charge it on him, and he went blustering over there

352 Mark Twain and did it. Goodson looked him over, like as if he was hunting for a place on him that he could despise the most, then he says, ‘So you are the Committee of Inquiry, are you?’ Sawlsberry said that was about what he was. ‘Hm. Do they require particulars, or do you reckon a kind of a general answer will do?’ ‘If they require particulars, I will come back. Mr. Goodson; I will take the general answer first.’ ‘Very well, then, tell them to go to hell—I reckon that’s general enough. And I’ll give you some advice, Sawlsberry; when you come back for the particulars, fetch a basket to carry the relics of yourself home in.’” “Just like Goodson; it’s got all the marks. He had only one vanity: he thought he could give advice better than any other person.” “It settled the business, and saved us, Mary. The subject was dropped.” “Bless you, I’m not doubting that.” Then they took up the gold-sack mystery again, with strong interest. Soon the conversation began to suffer breaks—interruptions caused by absorbed thinkings. The breaks grew more and more frequent. At last Richards lost himself wholly in thought. He sat long, gazing vacantly at the floor, and by and by he began to punctuate his thoughts with little nervous movements of his hands that seemed to indicate vexation. Meantime his wife too had relapsed into a thoughtful silence, and her movements were beginning to show a troubled discomfort. Finally Richards got up and strode aimlessly about the room, plowing his hands through his hair, much as a somnambulist might do who was having a bad dream. Then he seemed to arrive at a definite purpose; and without a word he put on his hat and passed quickly out of the house. His wife sat brooding, with a drawn face, and did not seem to be aware that she was alone. Now and then she murmured, “Lead us not into t— . . . but— but—we are so poor, so poor! . . . Lead us not into. . . . Ah, who would be hurt by it?—and no one would ever know. . . . Lead us. . . .” The voice died out in mumblings. After a little she glanced up and muttered in a half-frightened, half-glad way: “He is gone! But, oh dear, he may be too late—too late. . . . Maybe not—maybe there is still time.” She rose and stood thinking, nervously clasping and unclasping her hands. A slight shudder shook her frame, and she said, out of a dry throat, “God forgive me—it’s awful to think such things—but . . . Lord, how we are made—how strangely we are made!” She turned the light low, and slipped stealthily over and kneeled down by the sack and felt of its ridgy sides with her hands, and fondled them lovingly; and there was a gloating light in her poor old eyes. She fell into

353TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG fits of absence; and came half out of them at times to mutter, “If we had only waited!—oh, if we had only waited a little, and not been in such a hurry!” Meantime Cox had gone home from his office and told his wife all about the strange thing that had happened, and they had talked it over eagerly, and guessed that the late Goodson was the only man in the town who could have helped a suffering stranger with so noble a sum as twenty dollars. Then there was a pause, and the two became thoughtful and silent. And by and by nervous and fidgety. At last the wife said, as if to herself: “Nobody knows this secret but the Richardses . . . and us . . . nobody.” The husband came out of his thinkings with a slight start, and gazed wistfully at his wife, whose face was become very pale; then he hesitatingly rose, and glanced furtively at his hat, then at his wife—a sort of mute inquiry. Mrs. Cox swallowed once or twice, with her hand at her throat, then in place of speech she nodded her head. In a moment she was alone, and mumbling to herself. And now Richards and Cox were hurrying through the deserted streets, from opposite directions. They met, panting, at the foot of the printing office stairs; by the night light there they read each other’s face. Cox whispered: “Nobody knows about this but us?” The whispered answer was: “Not a soul—on honor, not a soul!” “If it isn’t too late to—” The men were starting upstairs; at this moment they were overtaken by a boy, and Cox asked: “Is that you, Johnny?” “Yes, sir.” “You needn’t ship the early mail—nor any mail; wait till I tell you.” “It’s already gone, sir.” “Gone?” It had the sound of an unspeakable disappointment in it. “Yes, sir. Timetable for Brixton and all the towns beyond changed today, sir—had to get the papers in twenty minutes earlier than common. I had to rush; if I had been two minutes later—” The men turned and walked slowly away, not waiting to hear the rest. Neither of them spoke during ten minutes; then Cox said, in a vexed tone: “What possessed you to be in such a hurry, I can’t make out.”

354 Mark Twain The answer was humble enough: “I see it now, but somehow I never thought, you know, until it was too late. But the next time—” “Next time be hanged! It won’t come in a thousand years.” Then the friends separated without a good night, and dragged themselves home with the gait of mortally stricken men. At their homes their wives sprang up with an eager “Well?”—then saw the answer with their eyes and sank down sorrowing, without waiting for it to come in words. In both houses a discussion followed of a heated sort—a new thing; there had been discussions before, but not heated ones, not ungentle ones. The discussions tonight were a sort of seeming plagiarisms of each other. Mrs. Richards said: “If you had only waited, Edward—if you had only stopped to think; but no, you must run straight to the printing office and spread it all over the world.” “It said publish it.” “That is nothing; it also said do it privately, if you liked. There, now—is that true, or not?” “Why, yes—yes, it is true; but when I thought what a stir it would make, and what a compliment it was to Hadleyburg that a stranger should trust it so—” “Oh, certainly, I know all that; but if you had only stopped to think, you would have seen that you couldn’t find the right man, because he is in his grave, and hasn’t left chick nor child nor relation behind him; and as long as the money went to somebody that awfully needed it, and nobody would be hurt by it, and—and—” She broke down, crying. Her husband tried to think of some comforting thing to say, and presently came out with this: “But after all, Mary, it must be for the best—it must be; we know that. And we must remember that it was so ordered—” “Ordered! Oh, everything’s ordered, when a person has to find some way out when he has been stupid. Just the same, it was ordered that the money should come to us in this special way, and it was you that must take it on yourself to go meddling with the designs of Providence—and who gave you the right? It was wicked, that is what it was—just blasphemous presumption, and no more becoming to a meek and humble professor of—” “But, Mary, you know how we have been trained all our lives long, like the whole village, till it is absolutely second nature to us to stop

355TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG not a single moment to think when there’s an honest thing to be done—” “Oh, I know it, I know it—it’s been one everlasting training and training and training in honesty—honesty shielded, from the very cradle, against every possible temptation, and so it’s artificial honesty, and weak as water when temptation comes, as we have seen this night. God knows I never had shade nor shadow of a doubt of my petrified and indestructible honesty until now—and now, under the very first big and real temptation, I—Edward, it is my belief that this town’s honesty is as rotten as mine is; as rotten as yours is. It is a mean town, a hard, stingy town, and hasn’t a virtue in the world but this honesty it is so celebrated for and so conceited about; and so help me, I do believe that if ever the day comes that its honesty falls under great temptation, its grand reputation will go to ruin like a house of cards. There, now, I’ve made confession, and I feel better; I am a humbug, and I’ve been one all my life, without knowing it. Let no man call me honest again—I will not have it.” “I—well, Mary, I feel a good deal as you do; I certainly do. It seems strange, too, so strange. I never could have believed it—never.” A long silence followed; both were sunk in thought. At last the wife looked up and said: “I know what you are thinking, Edward.” Richards had the embarrassed look of a person who is caught. “I am ashamed to confess it, Mary, but—” “It’s no matter, Edward, I was thinking the same question myself.” “I hope so. State it.” “You were thinking, if a body could only guess out what the remark was that Goodson made to the stranger.” “It’s perfectly true. I feel guilty and ashamed. And you?” “I’m past it. Let us make a pallet here; we’ve got to stand watch till the bank vault opens in the morning and admits the sack. . . . Oh dear, oh dear—if we hadn’t made the mistake!” The pallet was made, and Mary said: “The open sesame—what could it have been? I do wonder what that remark could have been? But come; we will get to bed now.” “And sleep?” “No: think.” “Yes, think.” By this time the Coxes too had completed their spat and their recon- ciliation, and were turning in—to think, to think, and toss, and fret, and

356 Mark Twain worry over what the remark could possibly have been which Goodson made to the stranded derelict; that golden remark; that remark worth forty thousand dollars, cash. The reason that the village telegraph office was open later than usual that night was this: The foreman of Cox’s paper was the local representative of the Associated Press. One might say its honorary representative, for it wasn’t four times a year that he could furnish thirty words that would be accepted. But this time it was different. His dispatch stating what he had caught got an instant answer: Send the whole thing—all the details—twelve hundred words. A colossal order! The foreman filled the bill; and he was the proudest man in the state. By breakfast time the next morning the name of Hadleyburg the Incorruptible was on every lip in America, from Montreal to the Gulf, from the glaciers of Alaska to the orange groves of Florida; and millions and millions of people were discussing the stranger and his money sack, and wondering if the right man would be found, and hoping some more news about the matter would come soon—right away. Hadleyburg village woke up world-celebrated—astonished—happy— vain. Vain beyond imagination. Its nineteen principal citizens and their wives went about shaking hands with each other, and beaming, and smiling, and congratulating, and saying this thing adds a new word to the dictionary—Hadleyburg, synonym for incorruptible—destined to live in dictionaries forever! And the minor and unimportant citizens and their wives went around acting in much the same way. Everybody ran to the bank to see the gold sack; and before noon grieved and envious crowds began to flock in from Brixton and all neighboring towns; and that afternoon and next day reporters began to arrive from everywhere to verify the sack and its history and write the whole thing up anew, and make dashing freehand pictures of the sack, and of Richards’ house, and the bank, and the Presbyterian church, and the Baptist church, and the public square, and the town hall where the test would be applied and the money delivered; and damnable portraits of the Richardses, and Pinkerton the banker, and Cox, and the foreman, and Reverend Burgess, and the postmaster—and even of Jack Halliday, who was the loafing, good-natured, no-account, irreverent fisherman, hunter, boys’ friend, stray-dogs’ friend, typical “Sam Lawson” of the town. The little mean,

357TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG smirking, oily Pinkerton showed the sack to all comers, and rubbed his sleek palms together pleasantly, and enlarged upon the town’s fine old reputation for honesty and upon this wonderful endorsement of it, and hoped and believed that the example would now spread far and wide over the American world, and be epoch-making in the matter of moral regeneration. And so on, and so on. By the end of a week things had quieted down again; the wild intoxication of pride and joy had sobered to a soft, sweet, silent delight— a sort of deep, nameless, unutterable content. All faces bore a look of peaceful, holy happiness. Then a change came. It was a gradual change: so gradual that its beginnings were hardly noticed; maybe were not noticed at all, except by Jack Halliday, who always noticed everything; and always made fun of it, too, no matter what it was. He began to throw out chaffing remarks about people not looking quite so happy as they did a day or two ago, and next he claimed that the new aspect was deepening to positive sadness; next, that it was taking on a sick look; and finally he said that everybody was become so moody, thoughtful, and absent-minded that he could rob the meanest man in town of a cent out of the bottom of his breeches pocket and not disturb his reverie. At this stage—or at about this stage—a saying like this was dropped at bedtime—with a sigh, usually—by the head of each of the nineteen principal households: “Ah, what could have been the remark that Goodson made?” And straightway—with a shudder—came this, from the man’s wife: “Oh, don’t! What horrible thing are you mulling in your mind? Put it away from you, for God’s sake!” But that question was wrung from those men again the next night— and got the same retort. But weaker. And the third night the men uttered the question yet again—with anguish, and absently. This time—and the following night—the wives fidgeted feebly, and tried to say something. But didn’t. And the night after that they found their tongues and responded— longingly: “Oh, if we could only guess!” Halliday’s comments grew daily more and more sparklingly disagreeable and disparaging. He went diligently about, laughing at the town, individually and in mass. But his laugh was the only one left in the village: it fell upon a hollow and mournful vacancy and emptiness. Not even a smile was findable anywhere. Halliday carried a cigar box around

358 Mark Twain on a tripod, playing that it was a camera, and halted all passers and aimed the thing and said, “Ready!—now look pleasant, please,” but not even this capital joke could surprise the dreary faces into any softening. So three weeks passed—one week was left. It was Saturday evening— after supper. Instead of the aforetime Saturday evening flutter and bustle and shopping and larking, the streets were empty and desolate. Richards and his old wife sat apart in their little parlor—miserable and thinking. This was become their evening habit now: the lifelong habit which had preceded it, of reading, knitting, and contented chat, or receiving or paying neighborly calls, was dead and gone and forgotten, ages ago— two or three weeks ago; nobody talked now, nobody read, nobody visited—the whole village sat at home, sighing, worrying, silent. Trying to guess out that remark. The postman left a letter. Richards glanced listlessly at the superscription and the postmark—unfamiliar, both—and tossed the letter on the table and resumed his might-have-beens and his hopeless dull miseries where he had left them off. Two or three hours later his wife got wearily up and was going away to bed without a goodnight—custom now—but she stopped near the letter and eyed it awhile with a dead interest, then broke it open, and began to skim it over. Richards, sitting there with his chair tilted back against the wall and his chin between his knees, heard something fall. It was his wife. He sprang to her side, but she cried out: “Leave me alone, I am too happy. Read the letter—read it!” He did. He devoured it, his brain reeling. The letter was from a distant state, and it said: I am a stranger to you, but no matter: I have something to tell. I have just arrived home from Mexico, and learned about that episode. Of course you do not know who made that remark, but I know, and I am the only person living who does know. It was GOODSON. I knew him well, many years ago. I passed through your village that very night, and was his guest till the midnight train came along. I overheard him make that remark to the stranger in the dark—it was in Hale Alley. He and I talked of it the rest of the way home, and while smoking in his house. He mentioned many of your villagers in the course of his talk—most of them in a very uncomplimentary way, but two or three favorably; among these latter yourself. I say “favorably”—nothing stronger. I remember his saying he did not actually LIKE any person in the town— not one; but that you—I THINK he said you—am almost sure—had done him a very great service once, possibly without knowing the full value of it, and he wished he had a fortune, he would leave it to you when he died, and a curse apiece for

359TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG the rest of the citizens. Now, then, if it was you that did him that service, you are his legitimate heir, and entitled to the sack of gold. I know that I can trust to your honor and honesty, for in a citizen of Hadleyburg these virtues are an unfailing inheritance, and so I am going to reveal to you the remark, well satisfied that if you are not the right man you will seek and find the right one and see that poor Goodson’s debt of gratitude for the service referred to is paid. This is the remark: “YOU ARE FAR FROM BEING A BAD MAN: GO, AND REFORM.” HOWARD L. STEPHENSON. “Oh, Edward, the money is ours, and I am so grateful, oh, so grateful— kiss me, dear, it’s forever since we kissed—and we needed it so—the money—and now you are free of Pinkerton and his bank, and nobody’s slave any more; it seems to me I could fly for joy.” It was a happy half-hour that the couple spent there on the settee caressing each other; it was the old days come again—days that had begun with their courtship and lasted without a break till the stranger brought the deadly money. By and by the wife said: “Oh, Edward, how lucky it was you did him that grand service, poor Goodson! I never liked him, but I love him now. And it was fine and beautiful of you never to mention it or brag about it.” Then, with a touch of reproach, “But you ought to have told me, Edward, you ought to have told your wife, you know.” “Well, I—er—well, Mary, you see—” “Now stop hemming and hawing, and tell me about it, Edward. I always loved you, and now I’m proud of you. Everybody believes there was only one good generous soul in this village, and now it turns out that you—Edward, why don’t you tell me?” “Well—er—er—Why, Mary, I can’t!” “You can’t? Why can’t you?” “You see, he—well, he—he made me promise I wouldn’t.” The wife looked him over, and said, very slowly: “Made—you—promise? Edward, what do you tell me that for?” “Mary, do you think I would lie?” She was troubled and silent for a moment, then she laid her hand within his and said: “No . . . no. We have wandered far enough from our bearings—God spare us that! In all your life you have never uttered a lie. But now— now that the foundations of things seem to be crumbling from under us, we—we—” She lost her voice for a moment, then said, brokenly, “Lead us not into temptation. . . . I think you made the promise, Edward.

360 Mark Twain Let it rest so. Let us keep away from that ground. Now—that is all gone by; let us be happy again; it is no time for clouds.” Edward found it something of an effort to comply, for his mind kept wandering—trying to remember what the service was that he had done Goodson. The couple lay awake the most of the night, Mary happy and busy, Edward busy but not so happy. Mary was planning what she would do with the money. Edward was trying to recall that service. At first his conscience was sore on account of the lie he had told Mary—if it was a lie. After much reflection—suppose it was a lie? What then? Was it such a great matter? Aren’t we always acting lies? Then why not tell them? Look at Mary—look what she had done. While he was hurrying off on his honest errand, what was she doing? Lamenting because the papers hadn’t been destroyed and the money kept! Is theft better than lying? That point lost its sting—the lie dropped into the background and left comfort behind it. The next point came to the front: Had he rendered that service? Well, here was Goodson’s own evidence as reported in Stephenson’s letter; there could be no better evidence than that—it was even proof that he had rendered it. Of course. So that point was settled. . . . No, not quite. He recalled with a wince that this unknown Mr. Stephenson was just a trifle unsure as to whether the performer of it was Richards or some other—and, oh dear, he had put Richards on his honor! He must himself decide whither that money must go—and Mr. Stephenson was not doubting that if he was the wrong man he would go honorably and find the right one. Oh, it was odious to put a man in such a situation—ah, why couldn’t Stephenson have left out that doubt! What did he want to intrude that for? Further reflection. How did it happen that Richards’ name remained in Stephenson’s mind as indicating the right man, and not some other man’s name? That looked good. Yes, that looked very good. In fact, it went on looking better and better, straight along—until by and by it grew into positive proof. And then Richards put the matter at once out of his mind, for he had a private instinct that a proof once established is better left so. He was feeling reasonably comfortable now, but there was still one other detail that kept pushing itself on his notice: of course he had done that service—that was settled; but what was that service? He must recall it—he would not go to sleep till he had recalled it; it would make his peace of mind perfect. And so he thought and thought. He thought of a dozen things—possible services, even probable services—but none of them seemed adequate, none of them seemed large enough, none of them

361TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG seemed worth the money—worth the fortune Goodson had wished he could leave in his will. And besides, he couldn’t remember having done them, anyway. Now, then—now, then—what kind of a service would it be that would make a man so inordinately grateful? Ah—the saving of his soul! That must be it. Yes, he could remember, now, how he once set himself the task of converting Goodson, and labored at it as much as— he was going to say three months; but upon closer examination it shrunk to a month, then to a week, then to a day, then to nothing. Yes, he remembered now, and with unwelcome vividness, that Goodson had told him to go to thunder and mind his own business—he wasn’t hankering to follow Hadleyburg to heaven! So that solution was a failure—he hadn’t saved Goodson’s soul. Richards was discouraged. Then after a little came another idea: had he saved Goodson’s property? No, that wouldn’t do—he hadn’t any. His life? That is it! Of course. Why, he might have thought of it before. This time he was on the right track, sure. His imagination mill was hard at work in a minute, now. Thereafter during a stretch of two exhausting hours he was busy saving Goodson’s life. He saved it in all kinds of difficult and perilous ways. In every case he got it saved satisfactorily up to a certain point; then, just as he was beginning to get well persuaded that it had really happened, a troublesome detail would turn up which made the whole thing impossible. As in the matter of drowning, for instance. In that case he had swum out and tugged Goodson ashore in an unconscious state with a great crowd looking on and applauding, but when he had got it all thought out and was just beginning to remember all about it, a whole swarm of disqualifying details arrived on the ground: the town would have known of the circumstance, Mary would have known of it, it would glare like a limelight in his own memory instead of being an inconspicuous service which he had possibly rendered “without knowing its full value.” And at this point he remembered that he couldn’t swim, anyway. Ah—there was a point which he had been overlooking from the start: it had to be a service which he had rendered “possibly without knowing the full value of it.” Why, really, that ought to be an easy hunt—much easier than those others. And sure enough, by-and-by he found it. Goodson, years and years ago, came near marrying a very sweet and pretty girl, named Nancy Hewitt, but in some way or other the match had been broken off; the girl died, Goodson remained a bachelor, and by-and-by became a soured one and a frank despiser of the human species. Soon after the girl’s death the village found out, or thought it had found out, that she

362 Mark Twain carried a spoonful of Negro blood in her veins. Richards worked at these details a good while, and in the end he thought he remembered things concerning them which must have gotten mislaid in his memory through long neglect. He seemed to dimly remember that it was he that found out about the Negro blood; that it was he that told the village; that the village told Goodson where they got it; that he thus saved Goodson from marrying the tainted girl; that he had done him this great service “without knowing the full value of it,” in fact without knowing that he was doing it; but that Goodson knew the value of it, and what a narrow escape he had had, and so went to his grave grateful to his benefactor and wishing he had a fortune to leave him. It was all clear and simple now, and the more he went over it the more luminous and certain it grew; and at last, when he nestled to sleep satisfied and happy, he remembered the whole thing just as if it had been yesterday. In fact, he dimly remembered Goodson’s telling him his gratitude once. Meantime Mary had spent six thousand dollars on a new house for herself and a pair of slippers for her pastor, and then had fallen peacefully to rest. That same Saturday evening the postman had delivered a letter to each of the other principal citizens—nineteen letters in all. No two of the envelopes were alike, and no two of the superscriptions were in the same hand, but the letters inside were just like each other in every detail but one. They were exact copies of the letter received by Richards— handwriting and all—and were all signed by Stephenson, but in place of Richards’ name each receiver’s own name appeared. All night long eighteen principal citizens did what their caste-brother Richards was doing at the same time—they put in their energies trying to remember what notable service it was that they had unconsciously done Barclay Goodson. In no case was it a holiday job; still they succeeded. And while they were at this work, which was difficult, their wives put in the night spending the money, which was easy. During that one night the nineteen wives spent an average of seven thousand dollars each out of the forty thousand in the sack—a hundred and thirty-three thousand altogether. Next day there was a surprise for Jack Halliday. He noticed that the faces of the nineteen chief citizens and their wives bore that expression of peaceful and holy happiness again. He could not understand it, neither was he able to invent any remarks about it that could damage it or disturb it. And so it was his turn to be dissatisfied with life. His private guesses at the reasons for the happiness failed in all instances, upon examination.

363TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG When he met Mrs. Wilcox and noticed the placid ecstasy in her face, he said to himself, “Her cat has had kittens”—and went and asked the cook: it was not so; the cook had detected the happiness, but did not know the cause. When Halliday found the duplicate ecstasy in the face of “Shadbelly” Billson (village nickname), he was sure some neighbor of Billson’s had broken his leg, but inquiry showed that this had not happened. The subdued ecstasy in Gregory Yates’s face could mean but one thing—he was a mother-in-law short: it was another mistake. “And Pinkerton—Pinkerton—he has collected ten cents that he thought he was going to lose.” And so on, and so on. In some cases the guesses had to remain in doubt; in the others they proved distinct errors. In the end Halliday said to himself, “Anyway it foots up that there’s nineteen Hadleyburg families temporarily in heaven: I don’t know how it happened; I only know Providence is off duty today.” An architect and builder from the next state had lately ventured to set up a small business in this unpromising village, and his sign had now been hanging out a week. Not a customer yet; he was a discouraged man, and sorry he had come. But his weather changed suddenly now. First one and then another chief citizen’s wife said to him privately: “Come to my house Monday week—but say nothing about it for the present. We think of building.” He got eleven invitations that day. That night he wrote his daughter and broke off her match with her student. He said she could marry a mile higher than that. Pinkerton the banker and two or three other well-to-do men planned countryseats—but waited. That kind don’t count their chickens until they are hatched. The Wilsons devised a grand new thing—a fancy-dress ball. They made no actual promises, but told all their acquaintanceship in confidence that they were thinking the matter over and thought they should give it—“and if we do, you will be invited, of course.” People were surprised, and said, one to another, “Why, they are crazy, those poor Wilsons, they can’t afford it.” Several among the nineteen said privately to their husbands, “It is a good idea: we will keep still till their cheap thing is over; then we will give one that will make it sick.” The days drifted along, and the bill of future squanderings rose higher and higher, wilder and wilder, more and more foolish and reckless. It began to look as if every member of the nineteen would not only spend his whole forty thousand dollars before receiving day, but be actually in debt

364 Mark Twain by the time he got the money. In some cases lightheaded people did not stop with planning to spend, they really spent—on credit. They bought land, mortgages, farms, speculative stocks, fine clothes, horses, and various other things, paid down the bonus, and made themselves liable for the rest—at ten days. Presently the sober second thought came, and Halliday noticed that a ghastly anxiety was beginning to show up in a good many faces. Again he was puzzled, and didn’t know what to make of it. “The Wilcox kittens aren’t dead, for they weren’t born; nobody’s broken a leg; there’s no shrinkage in mother-in-laws; nothing has happened—it is an unsolvable mystery.” There was another puzzled man, too—the Rev. Mr. Burgess. For days, wherever he went, people seemed to follow him or to be watching out for him; and if he ever found himself in a retired spot, a member of the nineteen would be sure to appear, thrust an envelope privately into his hand, whisper, “To be opened at the town hall Friday evening,” then vanish away like a guilty thing. He was expecting that there might be one claimant for the sack,—doubtful, however, Goodson being dead— but it never occurred to him that all this crowd might be claimants. When the great Friday came at last, he found that he had nineteen envelopes. The town hall had never looked finer. The platform at the end of it was backed by a showy draping of flags; at intervals along the walls were festoons of flags; the gallery fronts were clothed in flags; the supporting columns were swathed in flags; all this was to impress the stranger, for he would be there in considerable force, and in a large degree he would be connected with the press. The house was full. The 412 fixed seats were occupied; also the 68 extra chairs which had been packed into the aisles; the steps of the platform were occupied; some distinguished strangers were given seats on the platform; at the horseshoe of tables which fenced the front and sides of the platform sat a strong force of special correspondents who had come from everywhere. It was the best- dressed house the town had ever produced. There were some tolerably expensive toilets there, and in several cases the ladies who wore them had the look of being unfamiliar with that kind of clothes. At least the town thought they had that look, but the notion could have arisen from the town’s knowledge of the fact that these ladies had never inhabited such clothes before. The gold sack stood on a little table at the front of the platform where

365TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG all the house could see it. The bulk of the house gazed at it with a burning interest, a mouth-watering interest, a wistful and pathetic interest; a minority of nineteen couples gazed at it tenderly, lovingly, proprietarily, and the male half of this minority kept saying over to themselves the moving little impromptu speeches of thankfulness for the audience’s applause and congratulations which they were presently going to get up and deliver. Every now and then one of these got a piece of paper out of his vest pocket and privately glanced at it to refresh his memory. Of course there was a buzz of conversation going on—there always is; but at last when the Rev. Mr. Burgess rose and laid his hand on the sack he could hear the microbes gnaw, the place was so still. He related the curious history of the sack, then went on to speak in warm tones of Hadleyburg’s old and well-earned reputation for spotless honesty, and of the town’s just pride in this reputation. He said that this reputation was a treasure of priceless value; that under Providence its value had now become inestimably enhanced, for the recent episode had spread this fame far and wide, and thus had focused the eyes of the American world upon this village, and made its name for all time, as he hoped and believed, a synonym for commercial incorruptibility. (Applause.) “And who is to be the guardian of this noble treasure—the community as a whole? No! The responsibility is individual, not communal. From this day forth each and every one of you is in his own person its special guardian, and individually responsible that no harm shall come to it. Do you—does each of you—accept this great trust? (Tumultuous assent.) Then all is well. Transmit it to your children and to your children’s children. Today your purity is beyond reproach—see to it that it shall remain so. Today there is not a person in your community who could be beguiled to touch a penny not his own—see to it that you abide in this grace. (“We will! we will!”) This is not the place to make comparisons between ourselves and other communities—some of them ungracious toward us; they have their ways, we have ours; let us be content. (Applause.) I am done. Under my hand, my friends, rests a stranger’s eloquent recognition of what we are; through him the world will always henceforth know what we are. We do not know who he is, but in your name I utter your gratitude, and ask you to raise your voices in endorsement.” The house rose in a body and made the walls quake with the thunders of its thankfulness for the space of a long minute. Then it sat down, and Mr. Burgess took an envelope out of his pocket. The house held its breath while he slit the envelope open and took from it a slip of paper. He read its contents—slowly and impressively—the audience listening with

366 Mark Twain tranced attention to this magic document, each of whose words stood for an ingot of gold. “‘The remark which I made to the distressed stranger was this: “You are very far from being a bad man: go, and reform.”’” Then he continued: “We shall know in a moment now whether the remark here quoted corresponds with the one concealed in the sack; and if that shall prove to be so—and it undoubtedly will—this sack of gold belongs to a fellow citizen who will henceforth stand before the nation as the symbol of the special virtue which has made our town famous throughout the land— Mr. Billson!” The house had gotten itself all ready to burst into the proper tornado of applause; but instead of doing it, it seemed stricken with a paralysis; there was a deep hush for a moment or two, then a wave of whispered murmurs swept the place—of about this tenor: “Billson! oh, come, this is too thin! Twenty dollars to a stranger—or anybody—Billson! Tell it to the marines!” And now at this point the house caught its breath all of a sudden in a new access of astonishment, for it discovered that whereas in one part of the hall Deacon Billson was standing up with his head meekly bowed, in another part of it Lawyer Wilson was doing the same. There was a wondering silence now for a while. Everybody was puzzled, and nineteen couples were surprised and indignant. Billson and Wilson turned and stared at each other. Billson asked, bitingly: “Why do you rise, Mr. Wilson?” “Because I have a right to. Perhaps you will be good enough to explain to the house why you rise?” “With great pleasure. Because I wrote that paper.” “It is an impudent falsity! I wrote it myself.” It was Burgess’s turn to be paralyzed. He stood looking vacantly at first one of the men and then the other, and did not seem to know what to do. The house was stupefied. Lawyer Wilson spoke up, now, and said: “I ask the Chair to read the name signed to that paper.” That brought the Chair to itself, and it read out the name: “‘John Wharton Billson.’” “There!” shouted Billson. “What have you got to say for yourself, now? And what kind of apology are you going to make to me and to this insulted house for the imposture which you have attempted to play here?” “No apologies are due, sir; and as for the rest of it, I publicly charge you

367TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG with pilfering my note from Mr. Burgess and substituting a copy of it signed with your own name. There is no other way by which you could have gotten hold of the test remark; I alone, of living men, possessed the secret of its wording.” There was likely to be a scandalous state of things if this went on; everybody noticed with distress that the shorthand scribes were scribbling like mad; many people were crying, “Chair, Chair! Order! Order!” Burgess rapped with his gavel, and said: “Let us not forget the proprieties due. There has evidently been a mistake somewhere, but surely that is all. If Mr. Wilson gave me an envelope—and I remember now that he did—I still have it.” He took one out of his pocket, opened it, glanced at it, looked surprised and worried, and stood silent a few moments. Then he waved his hand in a wandering and mechanical way, and made an effort or two to say something, then gave it up, despondently. Several voices cried out: “Read it! Read it! What is it?” So he began in a dazed and sleepwalker fashion: “‘The remark which I made to the unhappy stranger was this: “You are far from being a bad man. (The house gazed at him, mareling.) Go, and reform.”’ (Murmurs: “Amazing! what can this mean?”) This one,” said the Chair, “is signed Thurlow G. Wilson.” “There!” cried Wilson, “I reckon that settles it! I knew perfectly well my note was purloined.” “Purloined!” retorted Billson. “I’ll let you know that neither you nor any man of your kidney must venture to—” The Chair. “Order, gentlemen, order! Take your seats, both of you, please.” They obeyed, shaking their heads and grumbling angrily. The house was profoundly puzzled; it did not know what to do with this curious emergency. Presently Thompson got up. Thompson was the hatter. He would have liked to be a Nineteener; but such was not for him: his stock of hats was not considerable enough for the position. He said: “Mr. Chairman, if I may be permitted to make a suggestion, can both of of these gentlemen be right? I put it to you, sir, can both have happened to say the very same words to the stranger? It seems to me—” The tanner got up and interrupted him. The tanner was a disgruntled man; he believed himself entitled to be a Nineteener, but he couldn’t get recognition. It made him a little unpleasant in his ways and speech. Said he:

368 Mark Twain “Sho, that’s not the point! That could happen—twice in a hundred years—but not the other thing. Neither of them gave the twenty dollars!” (A ripple of applause.) Billson. “I did!” Wilson. “I did!” Then each accused the other of pilfering. The Chair. “Order! Sit down, if you please—both of you. Neither of the notes has been out of my possession at any moment.” A Voice. “Good—that settles that!” The Tanner. “Mr. Chairman, one thing is now plain: one of these men has been eavesdropping under the other one’s bed, and filching family secrets. If it is not unparliamentary to suggest it, I will remark that both are equal to it. (The Chair. “Order! Order!”) I withdraw the remark, sir, and will confine myself to suggesting that if one of them has overheard the other reveal the test remark to his wife, we shall catch him now.” A Voice. “How?” The Tanner. “Easily. The two have not quoted the remark in exactly the same words. You would have noticed that, if there hadn’t been a considerable stretch of time and an exciting quarrel inserted between the two readings.” A Voice. “Name the difference.” The Tanner. “The word very is in Billson’s note, and not in the other.” Many Voices. “That’s so—he’s right!” The Tanner. “And so, if the Chair will examine the test remark in the sack, we shall know which of these two frauds—(The Chair. “Order!”)— which of these two adventurers—(The Chair. “Order! Order!”)—which of these two gentlemen—(Laughter and applause)—is entitled to wear the belt as being the first dishonest blatherskite ever bred in this town—which he has dishonored, and which will be a sultry place for him from now out!” (Vigorous applause.) Many Voices. “Open it!—open the sack!” Mr. Burgess made a slit in the sack, slid his hand in and brought out an envelope. In it were a couple of folded notes. He said: “One of these is marked, ‘Not to be examined until all written communications which have been addressed to the Chair—if any—shall have been read.’ The other is marked ‘The Test.’ Allow me. It is worded— to wit: “‘I do not require that the first half of the remark which was made to me by my benefactor shall be quoted with exactness, for it was not striking, and could be forgotten; but its closing fifteen words are quite striking,

369TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG and I think easily rememberable; unless these shall be accurately reproduced, let the applicant be regarded as an impostor. My benefactor began by saying he seldom gave advice to anyone, but that it always bore the hallmark of high value when he did give it. Then he said this—and it has never faded from my memory: “You are far from being a bad man—” ’ ” Fifty Voices. “That settles it—the money’s Wilson’s! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!” People jumped up and crowded around Wilson, wringing his hand and congratulating fervently—meantime the Chair was hammering with the gavel and shouting: “Order, gentlemen! Order! Order! Let me finish reading, please.” When quiet was restored, the reading was resumed, as follows: “ ‘Go, and reform—or, mark my words—some day, for your sins, you will die and go to hell or Hadleyburg—TRY AND MAKE IT TH E FORMER.’ ” A ghastly silence followed. First an angry cloud began to settle darkly upon the faces of the citizenship; after a pause the cloud began to rise, and a tickled expression tried to take its place; tried so hard that it was only kept under with great and painful difficulty; the reporters, the Brixtonites, and other strangers bent their heads down and shielded their faces with their hands, and managed to hold in by main strength and heroic courtesy. At this most inopportune time burst upon the stillness the roar of a solitary voice—Jack Halliday’s: “That’s got the hallmark on it!” Then the house let go, strangers and all. Even Mr. Burgess’ gravity broke down presently; then the audience considered itself officially absolved from all restraint, and it made the most of its privilege. It was a good long laugh, and a tempestuously wholehearted one, but it ceased at last—long enough for Mr. Burgess to try to resume, and for the people to get their eyes partially wiped; then it broke out again; and afterward yet again; then at last Burgess was able to get out these serious words: “It is useless to try to disguise the fact—we find ourselves in the presence of a matter of grave import. It involves the honor of your town, it strikes at the town’s good name. The difference of a single word between the test remarks offered by Mr. Wilson and Mr. Billson was itself a serious thing, since it indicated that one or the other of these gentlemen had committed a theft—” The two men were sitting limp, nerveless, crushed; but at these words both were electrified into movement, and started to get up. “Sit down!” said the Chair, sharply, and they obeyed. “That, as I have

370 Mark Twain said, was a serious thing. And it was—but for only one of them. But the matter has become graver; for the honor of both is now in formidable peril. Shall I go even further, and say in inextricable peril? Both left out the crucial fifteen words.” He paused. During several moments he allowed the pervading stillness to gather and deepen its impressive effects, then added: “There would seem to be but one way whereby this could happen. I ask these gentlemen—Was there collusion?—agreement?” A low murmur sifted through the house; its import was, “He’s got them both.” Billson was not used to emergencies; he sat in a helpless collapse. But Wilson was a lawyer. He struggled to his feet, pale and worried, and said: “I ask the indulgence of the house while I explain this most painful matter. I am sorry to say what I am about to say, since it must inflict irreparable injury upon Mr. Billson, whom I have always esteemed and respected until now, and in whose invulnerability to temptation I entirely believed—as did you all. But for the preservation of my own honor I must speak—and with frankness. I confess with shame—and I now beseech your pardon for it—that I said to the ruined stranger all of the words contained in the test remark, including the disparaging fifteen. (Sensation.) When the late publication was made I recalled them, and I resolved to claim the sack of coin, for by every right I was entitled to it. Now I will ask you to consider this point, and weigh it well: that stranger’s gratitude to me that night knew no bounds; he said himself that he could find no words for it that were adequate, and that if he should ever be able he would repay me a thousandfold. Now, then, I ask you this: Could I expect—could I believe—could I even remotely imagine—that, feeling as he did, he would do so ungrateful a thing as to add those quite unnecessary fifteen words to his test?—set a trap for me?—expose me as a slanderer of my own town before my own people assembled in a public hall? It was preposterous; it was impossible. His test would contain only the kindly opening clause of my remark. Of that I had no shadow of doubt. You would have thought as I did. You would not have expected a base betrayal from one whom you had befriended and against whom you had committed no offense. And so, with perfect confidence, perfect trust, I wrote on a piece of paper the opening words—ending with ‘Go, and reform’—and signed it. When I was about to put it in an envelope I was called into my back office, and without thinking I left the paper lying open on my desk.” He stopped, turned his head slowly toward Billson, waited a moment, then added: “I ask you

371TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG to note this: when I returned, a little later, Mr. Billson was retiring by my street door.” (Sensation.) In a moment Billson was on his feet and shouting: “It’s a lie! It’s an infamous lie!” The Chair. “Be seated, sir! Mr. Wilson has the floor.” Billson’s friends pulled him into his seat and quieted him, and Wilson went on: “Those are the simple facts. My note was now lying in a different place on the table from where I had left it. I noticed that, but attached no importance to it, thinking a draft had blown it there. That Mr. Billson would read a private paper was a thing which could not occur to me; he was an honorable man, and he would be above that. If you will allow me to say it, I think his extra word ‘very’ stands explained; it is attributable to a defect of memory. I was the only man in the world who could furnish here any detail of the test remark—by honorable means. I have finished.” There is nothing in the world like a persuasive speech to fuddle the mental apparatus and upset the convictions and debauch the emotions of an audience not practiced in the tricks and delusions of oratory. Wilson sat down victorious. The house submerged him in tides of approving applause; friends swarmed to him and shook him by the hand and congratulated him, and Billson was shouted down and not allowed to say a word. The Chair hammered and hammered with its gavel, and kept shouting: “But let us proceed, gentlemen, let us proceed!” At last there was a measurable degree of quiet, and the hatter said: “But what is there to proceed with, sir, but to deliver the money?” Voices. “That’s it! That’s it! Come forward, Wilson!” The Hatter. “I move three cheers for Mr. Wilson, Symbol of the special virtue which—” The cheers burst forth before he could finish; and in the midst of them—and in the midst of the clamor of the gavel also—some enthusiasts mounted Wilson on a big friend’s shoulder and were going to fetch him in triumph to the platform. The Chair’s voice now rose above the noise. “Order! To your places! You forget that there is still a document to be read.” When quiet had been restored he took up the document, and was going to read it, but laid it down again, saying, “I forgot; this is not to be read until all written communications received by me have first been read.” He took an envelope out of his pocket, removed its enclosure, glanced at it—seemed astonished—held it out and gazed at it—stared at it.

372 Mark Twain Twenty or thirty voices cried out: “What is it? Read it! Read it!” And he did—slowly, and wondering: “The remark which I made to the stranger—(Voices. “Hello! how’s this?”)—was this: “You are far from being a bad man. (Voices. “Great Scott!”) Go, and reform.”’ (Voice. “Oh, saw my leg off!”) Signed by Mr. Pinkerton the banker.” The pandemonium of delight which turned itself loose now was of a sort to make the judicious weep. Those whose withers were unwrung laughed till the tears ran down; the reporters, in throes of laughter, set down disordered pothooks which would never in the world be decipherable; and a sleeping dog jumped up, scared out of its wits, and barked itself crazy at the turmoil. All manner of cries were scattered through the din: “We’re getting rich—two Symbols of Incorruptibility!—without counting Billson!” “Three!—count Shadbelly in—we can’t have too many!” “All right—Billson’s elected!” “Alas, poor Wilson—victim of two thieves!” A Powerful Voice. “Silence! The Chair’s fished up something more out of its pocket.” Voices. “Hurrah! Is it something fresh? Read it! Read! Read!” The Chair (reading). “‘The remark which I made,’ etc.: “You are far from being a bad man. Go,” etc. Signed, Gregory Yates.’” Tornado of Voices. “Four Symbols!” “’Rah for Yates!” “Fish again!” The house was in a roaring humor now, and ready to get all the fun out of the occasion that might be in it. Several Nineteeners, looking pale and distressed, got up and began to work their way toward the aisles, but a score of shouts went up: “The doors, the doors—close the doors; no Incorruptible shall leave this place! Sit down, everybody!” The mandate was obeyed. “Fish again! Read! Read!” The Chair fished again, and once more the familiar words began to fall from its lips—“ ‘You are far from being a bad man—’ ” “Name! name! What’s his name?” “L. Ingoldsby Sargent.” “Five elected! Pile up the Symbols! Go on, go on!” “ ‘You are far from being a bad—’ ” “Name! name!” “Nicholas Whitworth.” “Hooray! hooray! It’s a symbolical day!” Somebody wailed in, and began to sing this rhyme (leaving out “it’s”)

373TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG to the lovely Mikado tune of “When a man’s afraid, a beautiful maid—”; the audience joined in, with joy; then, just in time, somebody contributed another line: And don’t you this forget— The house roared it out. A third line was at once furnished: Corruptibles far from Hadleyburg are The house roared that one too. As the last note died, Jack Halliday’s voice rose high and clear, freighted with a final line: But the Symbols are here, you bet! That was sung, with booming enthusiasm. Then the happy house started in at the beginning and sang the four lines through twice, with immense swing and dash, and finished up with a crashing three-times-three and a tiger for “Hadleyburg the Incorruptible and all Symbols of it which we shall find worthy to receive the hallmark tonight.” Then the shoutings at the Chair began again, all over the place: “Go on! Go on! Read! Read some more! Read all you’ve got!” “That’s it—go on! We are winning eternal celebrity!” A dozen men got up now and began to protest. They said that this farce was the work of some abandoned joker, and was an insult to the whole community. Without a doubt these signatures were all forgeries— “Sit down! Sit down! Shut up! You are confessing. We’ll find your names in the lot.” “Mr. Chairman, how many of those envelopes have you got?” The Chair counted. “Together with those that have been already examined, there are nineteen.” A storm of derisive applause broke out. “Perhaps they all contain the secret. I move that you open them all and read every signature that is attached to a note of that sort—and read also the first eight words of the note.” “Second the motion!” It was put and carried—uproariously. Then poor old Richards got up, and his wife rose and stood at his side. Her head was bent down, so that none might see that she was crying. Her husband gave her his arm, and so supporting her, he began to speak in a quavering voice: “My friends, you have known us two—Mary and me—all our lives, and I think you have liked us and respected us—”

374 Mark Twain The Chair interrupted him: “Allow me. It is quite true—that which you are saying, Mr. Richards: this town does know you two; it does like you; it does respect you; more— it honors you and loves you—” Halliday’s voice rang out: “That’s the hallmarked truth, too! If the Chair is right, let the house speak up and say it. Rise! Now, then—hip! hip! hip!—all together!” The house rose in mass, faced toward the old couple eagerly, filled the air with a snowstorm of waving handkerchiefs, and delivered the cheers with all its affectionate heart. The Chair then continued: “What I was going to say is this: We know your good heart, Mr. Richards, but this is not a time for the exercise of charity toward offenders. (Shouts of “Right! right!” ) I see your generous purpose in your face, but I cannot allow you to plead for these men—” “But I was going to—” “Please take your seat, Mr. Richards. We must examine the rest of these notes—simple fairness to the men who have already been exposed requires this. As soon as that has been done—I give you my word for this—you shall be heard.” Many Voices. “Right!—the Chair is right—no interruption can be permitted at this stage! Go on!—the names! the names!—according to the terms of the motion!” The old couple sat reluctantly down, and the husband whispered to the wife, “It is pitifully hard to have to wait; the shame will be greater than ever when they find we were only going to plead for ourselves.” Straightway the jollity broke loose again with the reading of the names. “‘You are far from being a bad man—’ Signature, Robert J. Titmarsh. “‘You are far from being a bad man—’ Signature, Eliphalet Weeks. “‘You are far from being a bad man—’ Signature, Oscar B. Wilder.” At this point the house lit upon the idea of taking the eight words out of the Chairman’s hands. He was not unthankful for that. Thenceforward he held up each note in its turn, and waited. The house droned out the eight words in a massed and measured and musical deep volume of sound (with a daringly close resemblance to a well-known church chant)— ”‘You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-a-d man.’” Then the Chair said, “Signature, Archibald Wilcox.” And so on, and so on, name after name, and everybody had an increasingly and gloriously good time except the wretched Nineteen. Now and then, when a particularly shining name was called, the house made the Chair wait while it chanted the whole of the

375TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG test remark from the beginning to the closing words, “And go to hell or Hadleyburg—try and make it the for-or-m-e-r!” and in these special cases they added a grand and agonized and imposing “A-a-a-a-men!” The list dwindled, dwindled, dwindled, poor old Richards keeping tally of the count, wincing when a name resembling his own was pronounced, and waiting in miserable suspense for the time to come when it would be his humiliating privilege to rise with Mary and finish his plea, which he was intending to word thus: “. . . for until now we have never done any wrong thing, but have gone our humble way unreproached. We are very poor, we are old, and have no chick nor child to help us; we were sorely tempted, and we fell. It was my purpose when I got up before to make confession and beg that my name might not be read out in this public place, for it seemed to us that we could not bear it; but I was prevented. It was just; it was our place to suffer with the rest. It has been hard for us. It is the first time we have ever heard our name fall from anyone’s lips—sullied. Be merciful—for the sake of the better days; make our shame as light to bear as in your charity you can.” At this point in his reverie Mary nudged him, perceiving that his mind was absent. The house was chanting, “You are f-a-r,” etc. “Be ready,” Mary whispered. “Your name comes now; he has read eighteen.” The chant ended. “Next! next! next!” came volleying from all over the house. Burgess put his hand into his pocket. The old couple, trembling, began to rise. Burgess fumbled a moment, then said: “I find I have read them all.” Faint with joy and surprise, the couple sank into their seats, and Mary whispered: “Oh, bless God, we are saved! He has lost ours—I wouldn’t give this for a hundred of those sacks!” The house burst out with its Mikado travesty, and sang it three times with ever increasing enthusiasm, rising to its feet when it reached for the third time the closing line: But the Symbols are here, you bet! and finishing up with cheers and a tiger for “Hadleyburg purity and our eighteen immortal representatives of it.” Then Wingate, the saddler, got up and proposed cheers “for the cleanest man in town, the one solitary important citizen in it who didn’t try to steal that money—Edward Richards.”

376 Mark Twain They were given with great and moving heartiness; then somebody proposed that Richards be elected sole guardian and Symbol of the now Sacred Hadleyburg Tradition, with power and right to stand up and look the whole sarcastic world in the face. Passed, by acclamation. Then they sang the Mikado again, and ended it with: And there’s one Symbol left, you bet! There was a pause; then: A Voice. “Now, then, who’s to get the sack?” The Tanner (with bitter sarcasm). “That’s easy. The money has to be divided among the eighteen Incorruptibles. They gave the suffering stranger twenty dollars apiece—and that remark—each in his turn—it took twenty-two minutes for the procession to move past. Staked the stranger— total contribution, $360. All they want is just the loan back—and interest— forty thousand dollars altogether.” Many Voices (derisively). “That’s it! Divvy! Divvy! Be kind to the poor— don’t keep them waiting!” The Chair. “Order! I now offer the stranger’s remaining document. It says: ‘If no claimant shall appear (grand chorus of groans), I desire that you open the sack and count out the money to the principal citizens of your town, they to take it in trust (cries of “Oh! Oh! Oh!”), and use it in such ways as to them shall seem best for the propagation and preservation of your community’s noble reputation for incorruptible honesty (more cries)— a reputation to which their names and their efforts will add a new and far-reaching luster.’ (Enthusiastic outburst of sarcastic applause.) That seems to be all. No—here is a postscript: “‘P. S.—CITIZENS OF HADLEYBURG: There is no test remark—nobody made one. (Great sensation.) There wasn’t any pauper stranger, nor any twenty-dollar contribution, nor any accompanying benediction and compliment—these are all inventions. (General buzz and hum of astonish- ment and delight.) Allow me to tell my story—it will take but a word or two. I passed through your town at a certain time, and received a deep offense which I had not earned. Any other man would have been content to kill one or two of you and call it square, but to me that would have been a trivial revenge, and inadequate; for the dead do not suffer. Be- sides, I could not kill you all—and, anyway, made as I am, even that would not have satisfied me. I wanted to damage every man in the place, and every woman—and not in their bodies or in their estate, but in their vanity—the place where feeble and foolish people are most vulnerable.

377TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG So I disguised myself and came back and studied you. You were easy game. You had an old and lofty reputation for honesty, and naturally you were proud of it—it was your treasure of treasures, the very apple of your eye. As soon as I found out that you carefully and vigilantly kept yourselves and your children out of temptation, I knew how to proceed. Why, you simple creatures, the weakest of all weak things is a virtue which has not been tested in the fire. I laid a plan, and gathered a list of names. My project was to corrupt Hadleyburg the Incorruptible. My idea was to make liars and thieves of nearly half a hundred smirchless men and women who had never in their lives uttered a lie or stolen a penny. I was afraid of Goodson. He was neither born nor reared in Hadleyburg. I was afraid that if I started to operate my scheme by getting my letter laid before you, you would say to yourselves, “Goodson is the only man among us who would give away twenty dollars to a poor devil”—and then you might not bite at my bait. But Heaven took Goodson; then I knew I was safe, and I set my trap and baited it. It may be that I shall not catch all the men to whom I mailed the pretended test secret, but I shall catch the most of them, if I know Hadleyburg nature. (Voices. “Right—he got every last one of them.”) I believe they will even steal ostensible gamble-money, rather than miss, poor, tempted, and mistrained fellows. I am hoping to eternally and everlastingly squelch your vanity and give Hadleyburg a new renown— one that will stick—and spread far. If I have succeeded, open the sack and summon the Committee on Propagation and Preservation of the Hadleyburg Reputation.’” A Cyclone of Voices. “Open it! Open it! The Eighteen to the front! Committee on Propag ation of the Tradition! Forward—the Incorruptibles!” The Chair ripped the sack wide, and gathered up a handful of bright, broad, yellow coins, shook them together, then examined them. “Friends, they are only gilded disks of lead!” There was a crashing outbreak of delight over this news, and when the noise had subsided, the tanner called out: “By right of apparent seniority in this business, Mr. Wilson is Chairman of the Committee on Propagation of the Tradition. I suggest that he step forward on behalf of his pals, and receive in trust the money.” A Hundred Voices. “Wilson! Wilson! Wilson! Speech! Speech!” Wilson (in a voice trembling with anger). “You will allow me to say, and without apologies for my language, damn the money!” A Voice. “Oh, and him a Baptist!”

378 Mark Twain A Voice. “Seventeen Symbols left! Step up, gentlemen, and assume your trust!” There was a pause—no response. The Saddler. “Mr. Chairman, we’ve got one clean man left, anyway, out of the late aristocracy; and he needs money, and deserves it. I move that you appoint Jack Halliday to get up there and auction off that sack of gilt twenty-dollar pieces, and give the result to the right man—the man whom Hadleyburg delights to honor—Edward Richards.” This was received with great enthusiasm, the dog taking a hand again; the saddler started the bids at a dollar, the Brixton folk and Barnum’s representative fought hard for it, the people cheered every jump that the bids made, the excitement climbed moment by moment higher and higher, the bidders got on their mettle and grew steadily more and more daring, more and more determined, the jumps went from a dollar up to five, then to ten, then to twenty, then fifty, then to a hundred, then— At the beginning of the auction Richards whispered in distress to his wife: “O Mary, can we allow it? It—it—you see, it is an honor reward, a testimonial to purity of character, and—and—can we allow it? Hadn’t I better get up and—O Mary, what ought we to do?—what do you think we—” (Halliday’s voice. “Fifteen I’m bid!—fifteen for the sack!— twenty!—ah, thanks!—thirty—thanks again! Thirty, thirty, thirty!—do I hear forty?—forty it is! Keep the ball rolling, gentlemen, keep it rolling!—fifty!— thanks, noble Roman! going at fifty, fifty, fifty!—seventy!—ninety!—splendid!—a hundred!—pile it up, pile it up!—hundred and twenty—forty!—just in time!— hundred and fifty!—TWO hundred!—superb! Do I hear two h—thanks!—two hundred and fifty!—”) “It is another temptation, Edward—I’m all in a tremble—but, oh, we’ve escaped one temptation, and that ought to warn us to—(“Six did I hear?—thanks!—six fifty, six f—S EVE N hundred!”) And yet, Edward, when you think—nobody susp—(“Eight hundred dollars!—hurrah!—make it nine!— Mr. Parsons, did I hear you say—thanks—nine!—this noble sack of virgin lead going at only nine hundred dollars, gilding and all—come! do I hear—a thousand!— gratefully yours!—did someone say eleven?—a sack which is going to be the most celebrated in the whole Uni—”) O Edward” (beginning to sob), “we are so poor!—but—but—do as you think best—do as you think best.” Edward fell—that is, he sat still; sat with a conscience which was not satisfied, but which was overpowered by circumstances. Meantime a stranger, who looked like an amateur detective gotten up as an impossible English earl, had been watching the evening’s proceed-

379TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG ings with manifest interest, and with a contented expression in his face; and he had been privately commenting to himself. He was now soliloquizing somewhat like this: “None of the Eighteen are bidding; that is not satisfactory; I must change that—the dramatic unities require it; they must buy the sack they tried to steal; they must pay a heavy price, too—some of them are rich. And another thing, when I make a mistake in Hadleyburg nature the man that puts that error upon me is entitled to a high honorarium, and someone must pay it. This poor old Richards has brought my judgment to shame; he is an honest man. I don’t understand it, but I acknowledge it. Yes, he saw my deuces and with a straight flush, and by rights the pot is his. And it shall be a jackpot, too, if I can manage it. He disappointed me, but let that pass.” He was watching the bidding. At a thousand, the market broke; the prices tumbled swiftly. He waited—and still watched. One competitor dropped out; then another, and another. He put in a bid or two, now. When the bids had sunk to ten dollars, he added a five; someone raised him a three; he waited a moment, then flung in a fifty-dollar jump, and the sack was his—at $1,282. The house broke out in cheers—then stopped; for he was on his feet, and had lifted his hand. He began to speak. “I desire to say a word, and ask a favor. I am a speculator in rarities, and I have dealings with persons interested in numismatics all over the world. I can make a profit on this purchase, just as it stands; but there is a way, if I can get your approval, whereby I can make every one of these leaden twenty-dollar pieces worth its face in gold, and perhaps more. Grant me that approval, and I will give part of my gains to your Mr. Rich- ards, whose invulnerable probity you have so justly and so cordially recognized tonight; his share shall be ten thousand dollars, and I will hand him the money tomorrow. (Great applause from the house. But the “invulnerable probity” made the Richardses blush prettily; however, it went for modesty, and did no harm.) If you will pass my proposition by a good majority—I would like a two-thirds vote—I will regard that as the town’s consent, and that is all I ask. Rarities are always helped by any device which will rouse curiosity and compel remark. Now if I may have your permission to stamp upon the faces of each of these ostensible coins the names of the eighteen gentlemen who—” Nine-tenths of the audience were on their feet in a moment—dog and all—and the proposition was carried with a whirlwind of approving applause and laughter. They sat down, and all the Symbols except “Dr.” Clay Harkness got up, violently protesting against the proposed outrage, and threatening to—

380 Mark Twain “I beg you not to threaten me,” said the stranger, calmly. “I know my legal rights, and am not accustomed to being frightened at bluster.” (Applause.) He sat down. “Dr.” Harkness saw an opportunity here. He was one of the two very rich men of the place, and Pinkerton was the other. Harkness was proprietor of a mint; that is to say, a popular patent medicine. He was running for the Legislature on one ticket, and Pinkerton on the other. It was a close race and a hot one, and getting hotter every day. Both had strong appetites for money; each had bought a great tract of land, with a purpose; there was going to be a new railway, and each wanted to be in the Legislature and help locate the route to his own advantage; a single vote might make the decision, and with it two or three fortunes. The stake was large, and Harkness was a daring speculator. He was sitting close to the stranger. He leaned over while one or another of the other Symbols was entertaining the house with protests and appeals, and asked in a whisper: “What is your price for the sack?” “Forty thousand dollars.” “I’ll give you twenty.” “No.” “Twenty-five.” “No.” “Say thirty.” “The price is forty thousand dollars; not a penny less.” “All right, I’ll give it. I will come to the hotel at ten in the morning. I don’t want it known; will see you privately.” “Very good.” Then the stranger got up and said to the house: “I find it late. The speeches of these gentlemen are not without merit, not without interest, not without grace; yet if I may be excused I will take my leave. I thank you for the great favor which you have shown me in granting my petition. I ask the Chair to keep the sack for me until tomorrow, and to hand these three five-hundred-dollar notes to Mr. Richards.” They were passed up to the Chair. “At nine I will call for the sack, and at eleven will deliver the rest of the ten thousand to Mr. Richards in person, at his home. Good night.” Then he slipped out, and left the audience making a vast noise, which was composed of a mixture of cheers, the Mikado song, dog-disapproval, and the chant, “You are f-a-r from being a b-a-a-d man—a-a-a a-men!”

381TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG At home the Richardses had to endure congratulations and compliments until midnight. Then they were left to themselves. They looked a little sad, and they sat silent and thinking. Finally Mary sighed and said: “Do you think we are to blame, Edward—much to blame?” And her eyes wandered to the accusing triplet of big bank notes lying on the table, where the congratulators had been gloating over them and reverently fingering them. Edward did not answer at once; then he brought out a sigh and said, hesitatingly: “We—we couldn’t help it, Mary. It—well, it was ordered. All things are.” Mary glanced up and looked at him steadily, but he didn’t return the look. Presently she said: “I thought congratulations and praises always tasted good. But—it seems to me, now—Edward?” “Well?” “Are you going to stay in the bank?” “N-no.” “Resign?” “In the morning—by note.” “It does seem best.” Richards bowed his head in his hands and muttered: “Before, I was not afraid to let oceans of people’s money pour through my hands, but—Mary, I am so tired, so tired—” “We will go to bed.” At nine in the morning the stranger called for the sack and took it to the hotel in a cab. At ten Harkness had a talk with him privately. The stranger asked for and got five checks on a metropolitan bank—drawn to “Bearer”—four for $1,500 each, and one for $34,000. He put one of the former in his pocketbook, and the remainder, representing $38,500, he put in an envelope, and with these he added a note, which he wrote after Harkness was gone. At eleven he called at the Richards’ house and knocked. Mrs. Richards peeped through the shutters, then went and received the envelope, and the stranger disappeared without a word. She came back flushed and a little unsteady on her legs, and gasped out: “I am sure I recognized him! Last night it seemed to me that maybe I had seen him somewhere before.” “He is the man that brought the sack here?” “I am almost sure of it.” “Then he is the ostensible Stephenson, too, and sold every important citizen in this town with his bogus secret. Now if he has sent checks in-

382 Mark Twain stead of money, we are sold, too, after we thought we had escaped. I was beginning to feel fairly comfortable once more, after my night’s rest, but the look of that envelope makes me sick. It isn’t fat enough; $8,500 in even the largest bank notes makes more bulk than that.” “Edward, why do you object to checks?” “Checks signed by Stephenson! I am resigned to take the $8,500 if it could come in bank notes—for it does seem that it was so ordered, Mary— but I have never had much courage, and I have not the pluck to try to market a check signed with that disastrous name. It would be a trap. That man tried to catch me; we escaped somehow or other; and now he is trying a new way. If it is checks—” “Oh, Edward, it is too bad!” And she held up the checks and began to cry. “Put them in the fire! Quick! We mustn’t be tempted. It is a trick to make the world laugh at us, along with the rest, and— Give them to me, since you can’t do it!” He snatched them and tried to hold his grip till he could get to the stove; but he was human, he was a cashier, and he stopped a moment to make sure of the signature. Then he came near to fainting. “Fan me, Mary, fan me! They are the same as gold!” “Oh, how lovely, Edward! Why?” “Signed by Harkness. What can the mystery of that be, Mary?” “Edward, do you think—” “Look here—look at this! Fifteen—fifteen—fifteen—thirty-four. Thirty- eight thousand five hundred! Mary, the sack isn’t worth twelve dollars, and Harkness—apparently—has paid about par for it.” “And does it all come to us, do you think—instead of the ten thousand?” “Why, it looks like it. And the checks are made to ‘Bearer,’ too.” “Is that good, Edward? What is it for?” “A hint to collect them at some distant bank, I reckon. Perhaps Harkness doesn’t want the matter known. What is that—a note?” “Yes. It was with the checks.” It was in the “Stephenson” handwriting, but there was no signature. It said: I am a disappointed man. Your honesty is beyond the reach of tempta- tion. I had a different idea about it, but I wronged you in that, and I beg pardon, and do it sincerely. I honor you—and that is sincere too. This town is not worthy to kiss the hem of your garment. Dear sir, I made a square bet with myself that there were nineteen debauchable

383TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG men in your self-righteous community. I have lost. Take the whole pot, you are entitled to it. Richards drew a deep sigh, and said: “It seems written with fire—it burns so. Mary—I am miserable again.” “I, too. Ah, dear, I wish—” “To think, Mary—he believes in me.” “Oh, don’t, Edward—I can’t bear it.” “If those beautiful words were deserved, Mary—and God knows I believed I deserved them once—I think I could give the forty thousand dollars for them. And I would put that paper away, as representing more than gold and jewels, and keep it always. But now—We could not live in the shadow of its accusing presence, Mary.” He put it in the fire. A messenger arrived and delivered an envelope. Richards took from it a note and read it; it was from Burgess. You saved me, in a difficult time. I saved you last night. It was at cost of a lie, but I made the sacrifice freely, and out of a grateful heart. None in this village knows so well as I know how brave and good and noble you are. At bottom you cannot respect me, knowing as you do of that matter of which I am accused, and by the general voice condemned; but I beg that you will at least believe that I am a grateful man; it will help me to bear my burden. (Signed) BURGESS. “Saved, once more. And on such terms!” He put the note in the fire. “I—I wish I were dead, Mary, I wish I were out of it all.” “Oh, these are bitter, bitter days, Edward. The stabs, through their very generosity, are so deep—and they come so fast!” Three days before the election each of two thousand voters suddenly found himself in possession of a prized memento—one of the renowned bogus double eagles. Around one of its faces was stamped these words: “THE REMARK I MADE TO THE POOR STRANGER WAS—” Around the other face was stamped these: “GO, AND REFORM. (SIGNED) PINKERTON.” Thus the entire remaining refuse of the renowned joke was emptied upon a single head, and with calamitous effect. It revived the recent vast laugh and concentrated it upon Pinkerton; and Harkness’ election was a walkover. Within twenty-four hours after the Richardses had received their checks their consciences were quieting down, discouraged; the old couple were learning to reconcile themselves to the sin which they had commit- ted. But they were to learn, now, that a sin takes on new and real terrors

384 Mark Twain when there seems a chance that it is going to be found out. This gives it a fresh and most substantial and important aspect. At church the morning sermon was of the usual pattern; it was the same old things said in the same old way; they had heard them a thousand times and found them innocuous, next to meaningless, and easy to sleep under; but now it was different: the sermon seemed to bristle with accusations; it seemed aimed straight and specially at people who were concealing deadly sins. After church they got away from the mob of congratulators as soon as they could, and hurried homeward, chilled to the bone at they did not know what— vague, shadowy, indefinite fears. And by chance they caught a glimpse of Mr. Burgess as he turned a corner. He paid no attention to their nod of recognition! He hadn’t seen it; but they did not know that. What could his conduct mean? It might mean—it might mean—oh, a dozen dreadful things. Was it possible that he knew that Richards could have cleared him of guilt in that bygone time, and had been silently waiting for a chance to even up accounts? At home, in their distress they got to imagining that their servant might have been in the next room listening when Richards revealed the secret to his wife that he knew of Burgess’ innocence; next, Richards began to imagine that he had heard the swish of a gown in there at that time; next, he was sure he had heard it. They would call Sarah in, on a pretext, and watch her face: if she had been betraying them to Mr. Bur- gess, it would show in her manner. They asked her some questions— questions which were so random and incoherent and seemingly purposeless that the girl felt sure that the old people’s minds had been affected by their sudden good fortune; the sharp and watchful gaze which they bent upon her frightened her, and that completed the business. She blushed, she became nervous and confused, and to the old people these were plain signs of guilt—guilt of some fearful sort or other—without doubt she was a spy and a traitor. When they were alone again they began to piece many unrelated things together and get horrible results out of the combination. When things had got about to the worst, Richards was delivered of a sudden gasp, and his wife asked: “Oh, what is it?—What is it?” “The note—Burgess’ note! Its language was sarcastic, I see it now.” He quoted: “‘At bottom you cannot respect me, knowing, as you do, of that matter of which I am accused’—oh, it is perfectly plain, now, God help me! He knows that I know! You see the ingenuity of the phrasing. It was a trap—and like a fool, I walked into it. And Mary—?” “Oh, it is dreadful—I know what you are going to say—he didn’t return your transcript of the pretended test remark.”

385TH E MAN THAT CORRU PTE D HADLEYB U RG “No—kept it to destroy us with. Mary, he has exposed us to some already. I know it—I know it well. I saw it in a dozen faces after church. Ah, he wouldn’t answer our nod of recognition—he knew what he had been doing!” In the night the doctor was called. The news went around in the mor- ning that the old couple were rather seriously ill—prostrated by the ex- hausting excitement growing out of their great windfall, the congratulations, and the late hours, the doctor said. The town was sincerely distressed; for these old people were about all it had left to be proud of, now. Two days later the news was worse. The old couple were delirious, and were doing strange things. By witness of the nurses, Richards had exhibited checks—for $8,500? No—for an amazing sum—$38,500! What could be the explanation of this gigantic piece of luck? The following day the nurses had more news—and wonderful. They had concluded to hide the checks, lest harm come to them; but when they searched they were gone from under the patient’s pillow—vanished away. The patient said: “Let the pillow alone; what do you want?” “We thought it best that the checks—” “You will never see them again—they are destroyed. They came from Satan. I saw the hell-brand on them, and I knew they were sent to betray me to sin.” Then he fell to gabbling strange and dreadful things which were not clearly understandable, and which the doctor admonished them to keep to themselves. Richards was right; the checks were never seen again. A nurse must have talked in her sleep, for within two days the forbidden gabblings were the property of the town; and they were of a surprising sort. They seemed to indicate that Richards had been a claimant for the sack himself, and that Burgess had concealed that fact and then maliciously betrayed it. Burgess was taxed with this and stoutly denied it. And he said it was not fair to attach weight to the chatter of a sick old man who was out of his mind. Still, suspicion was in the air, and there was much talk. After a day or two it was reported that Mrs. Richards’ delirious deliveries were getting to be duplicates of her husband’s. Suspicion flamed up into conviction, now, and the town’s pride in the purity of its one undiscredited important citizen began to dim down and flicker toward extinction. Six days passed; then came more news. The old couple were dying.

386 Mark Twain Richards’ mind cleared in his latest hour, and he sent for Burgess. Burgess said: “Let the room be cleared. I think he wishes to say something in privacy.” “No!” said Richards. “I want witnesses. I want you all to hear my confession, so that I may die a man, and not a dog. I was clean— artificially—like the rest; and like the rest I fell when temptation came. I signed a lie, and claimed the miserable sack. Mr. Burgess remembered that I had done him a service, and in gratitude (and ignorance) he suppressed my claim and saved me. You know the thing that was charged against Burgess years ago. My testimony, and mine alone, could have cleared him, and I was a coward, and left him to suffer disgrace—” “No—no—Mr. Richards, you—” “My servant betrayed my secret to him—” “No one has betrayed anything to me—” —“and then he did a natural and justifiable thing, he repented of the saving kindness which he had done me, and he exposed me—as I de- served—” “Never!—I make oath—” “Out of my heart I forgive him.” Burgess’ impassioned protestations fell upon deaf ears; the dying man passed away without knowing that once more he had done poor Burgess a wrong. The old wife died that night. The last of the sacred Nineteen had fallen a prey to the fiendish sack; the town was stripped of the last rag of its ancient glory. Its mourning was not showy, but it was deep. By act of the Legislature—upon prayer and petition—Hadleyburg was allowed to change its name to (never mind what—I will not give it away), and leave one word out of the motto that for many generations had graced the town’s official seal. It is an honest town once more, and the man will have to rise early that catches it napping again.

387 Charles Dickens 1812–1870 Charles Dickens was born in Landport, now a section of Portsea,England, February 7, 1812. His father clerked for the Navy Pay Office. A convivial, easygoing man, he was held for a time in Marshalsea debtors’ prison. Young Charles got little schooling. For some months he was put to work in a blacking warehouse. He served in an attorney’s office, became a shorthand writer and a first-rate Parliamentary reporter. His first book, Sketches by Boz, was published in 1836. That same year he married Catherine Hogarth and began to bring out The Pickwick Papers (see below) in monthly parts. Before the year was out his tremendous audience had found him. It grew with the publication of Oliver Twist in 1838 and Nicholas Nickleby a year later. The Old Curiosity Shop and Barnaby Rudge followed in 1841. Dickens was handsomely received on his first tour of the United States but the acid tone of American Notes outraged his transatlantic readers. In 1843–45 he settled in Genoa and toured Italy and France on the way back to England. During this period, Martin Chuzzlewit, A Christmas Carol, and The Chimes appeared. Dickens founded the London Daily News but soon returned to the Continent. In Paris he met Chateaubriand, Dumas and Victor Hugo. By March, 1847, he was back in London, working on Dombey and Son. The monthly parts of David Copperfield, probably his most widely read novel, began to appear in 1849. He founded the periodical Household Words in 1850. Publication of Bleak House, the first of his somber later novels, began in 1852. It was followed by Hard Times and Little Dorrit. In June, 1857, he gave the first of his public readings in London. About this time he

388 Charles Dickens was separated from his wife and his association with the actress Ellen Ternan began. In 1859 he published A Tale of Two Cities and set up a new periodical, All the Year Round. During the early 1860’s, in the midst of many lectures, he found time to write Great Expectations and Our Mutual Friend. His second tour of the United States in 1867–68 was an unparalleled triumph. In his time he was the most popular novelist in English and earned his rank among the greatest. He began publication of his unfinished novel, The Mystery of Edwin Drood, just before he died on June 9, 1870. The celebrated Mr. Pickwick, famous alike for his round androsy good nature and his incomparable intellect, has got himself into a pickle. Indeed, it is one of the most renowned pickles in all literature—the pickle of Bardell v. Pickwick, tried under Mr. Justice Stareleigh at Guildhall, London, on February 14 in some imaginary year of the late 1820’s. Mr. Pickwick stands accused of the most horrible, monstrous and unnatural crime ever bound into law calf. It is nothing less than breach of promise. He is charged with having defaulted on a promise of marriage to a respectable female—to wit, a certain Mrs. Bardell, his former landlady, widow of a customhouse officer and mother of that “little villain,” Master Bardell. So we are into Pickwick Papers, a great book that is not so much a book as a world. In it Dickens first discovered the huge power of his own talent and went a little mad with the fun of it. He never wrote a book quite like it again. Perhaps no one ever will. We can read it for a week. Many a man has read it for a lifetime. We can eat it, and sleep in it, and dream about it, and never once wish we were somewhere else or doing something else. Of how many great books can this be said? In our excerpt, we meet Mr. Pickwick on one of the critical days in his life. Two things happen: he is caught in a horribly false posi- Notes from the artist: “. . . three of Dickens’ creations— Alfred Jingle, Mr. Pickwick, and Fagin—rendered in a contemporary version of the famous George Cruikshank drawings, stand behind the head of the author.”

390 Charles Dickens tion with Mrs. Bardell, and he engages the incomparable Sam Weller as his manservant. A few pages back we had the pleasure of meeting Sam for the first time, complete with striped waistcoat, white hat, and red neckerchief, in the yard at the White Hart Inn. There, in consideration of a sovereign passed from hand to hand, Sam had been able to assist Mr. Pickwick, Mr. Wardle, and Mr. Perker the lawyer in thwarting the marriage plans of Mr. Jingle. In a book in which nearly everyone else is funny without quite meaning to be, Sam Weller is funny by wit and intention. Edwin Pugh, a specialist in Cockney life, wrote that the average Cockney “is often witty; he is sometimes eloquent; he has a notable gift of phrase- making and nicknaming.” All this applies to Sam, who is far from average. He is, in fact, the Great Cockney, the Cockney of Cockneys. His aplomb is limited but complete, his competence unfailing. He is an Odysseus who “is never at a loss”; and like any Homeric hero, he speaks in metaphors. His worldliness in the world of London— and of England, for that matter—shows never a crack. Thus he is the good right hand, and precisely the right one, for that confederation of innocents, the Pickwick Club, and especially for Mr. Pickwick himself. Who but the self-possessed young Mr. Weller would have been able to catch Mrs. Bardell’s gossip cronies in an indiscretion—to wit, the revelation that the shysters Dodson and Fogg had taken her case on speculation? And who but Sam, on the witness stand, would have been able to make such good use of it with the lawyers who had reduced Mr. Winkle to the point of burying his head under the sofa cushions? We tend to forget how much Dickens—the young Dickens, at least— was a man of the Romantic movement, blood brother to Pushkin, Lamb, Scott, the early Balzac and the Gogol of Dead Souls. The Pickwick Papers belongs among the great and few Romantic comedies; and the story of Mr. Pickwick’s involvement with Mrs. Bardell and the law is one of its crowning episodes.

391 A Full and Faithful Report of the Memorable Trial of Bardell against Pickwick from The Pickwick Papers r. Pickwick’s apartments in Goswell Street, although on a limited scale, were not only of a very neat and comfortable description, but peculiarly adapted for the residence of a man of his genius and observation. His sitting-room was the first floor front, his bedroom the second floor front; and thus, whether he were sitting at his desk in his parlour, or standing before the dressing-glass in his dormitory, he had an equal opportunity of contemplating human nature in all the numerous phases it exhibits, in that not more populous than popular thoroughfare. His landlady, Mrs. Bardell— the relict and sole executrix of a deceased custom-house officer—was a comely woman of bustling manners and agreeable appearance, with a natural genius for cooking, improved by study and long practice, into an exquisite talent. There were no children, no servants, no fowls. The only other inmates of the house were a large man and a small boy; the first a lodger, the second a production of Mrs. Bardell’s. The large man was always home precisely at ten o’clock at night, at which hour he regularly condensed himself into the limits of a dwarfish French bedstead in the back parlour; and the infantine sports and gymnastic exercises of Master Bardell were exclusively confined to the neighbouring pavements and gutters. Cleanliness and quiet reigned throughout the house; and in it Mr. Pickwick’s will was law. To any one acquainted with these points of the domestic economy of the establishment, and conversant with the admirable regulation of Mr. Pickwick’s mind, his appearance and behaviour on the morning previous to that which had been fixed upon for the journey to Eatanswill would

392 Charles Dickens have been most mysterious and unaccountable. He paced the room to and fro with hurried steps, popped his head out of the window at intervals of about three minutes each, constantly referred to his watch, and exhibited many other manifestations of impatience very unusual with him. It was evident that something of great importance was in contemplation, but what that something was, not even Mrs. Bardell herself had been enabled to discover. “Mrs. Bardell,” said Mr. Pickwick, at last, as that amiable female approached the termination of a prolonged dusting of the apartment. “Sir,” said Mrs. Bardell. “Your little boy is a very long time gone.” “Why, it’s a good long way to the Borough, sir,” remonstrated Mrs. Bardell. “Ah,” said Mr. Pickwick, “very true; so it is.” Mr. Pickwick relapsed into silence, and Mrs. Bardell resumed her dusting. “Mrs. Bardell,” said Mr. Pickwick, at the expiration of a few minutes. “Sir,” said Mrs. Bardell again. “Do you think it a much greater expense to keep two people, than to keep one?” “La, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mrs. Bardell, colouring up to the very border of her cap, as she fancied she observed a species of matrimonial twinkle in the eyes of her lodger; “La, Mr. Pickwick, what a question!” “Well, but do you?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. “That depends—” said Mrs. Bardell, approaching the duster very near to Mr. Pickwick’s elbow, which was planted on the table, “that depends a good deal upon the person, you know, Mr. Pickwick; and whether it’s a saving and careful person, sir.” “That’s very true,” said Mr. Pickwick, “but the person I have in my eye” (here he looked very hard at Mrs. Bardell) “I think possesses these qualities; and has, moreover, a considerable knowledge of the world, and a great deal of sharpness, Mrs. Bardell; which may be of material use to me.” “La, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mrs. Bardell, the crimson rising to her cap border again. “I do,” said Mr. Pickwick, growing energetic, as was his wont in speaking of a subject which interested him, “I do, indeed; and to tell you the truth, Mrs. Bardell, I have made up my mind.” “Dear me, sir,” exclaimed Mrs. Bardell. “You’ll think it very strange now,” said the amiable Mr. Pickwick, with a

393TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS good-humoured glance at his companion, “that I never consulted you about this matter, and never even mentioned it, till I sent your little boy out this morning—eh?” Mrs. Bardell could only reply by a look. She had long worshipped Mr. Pickwick at a distance, but here she was, all at once, raised to a pinnacle to which her wildest and most extravagant hopes had never dared to aspire. Mr. Pickwick was going to propose—a deliberate plan, too—sent her little boy to the Borough, to get him out of the way—how thoughtful—how considerate! “Well,” said Mr. Pickwick, “what do you think?” “Oh, Mr. Pickwick,” said Mrs. Bardell, trembling with agitation, “you’re very kind, sir.” “It’ll save you a good deal of trouble, won’t it?” said Mr. Pickwick. “Oh, I never thought anything of the trouble, sir,” replied Mrs. Bardell; “and, of course, I should take more trouble to please you then, than ever; but it is so kind of you, Mr. Pickwick, to have so much consideration for my loneliness.” “Ah, to be sure,” said Mr. Pickwick; “I never thought of that. When I am in town, you’ll always have somebody to sit with you. To be sure, so you will.” “I’m sure I ought to be a very happy woman,” said Mrs. Bardell. “And your little boy—” said Mr. Pickwick. “Bless his heart!” interposed Mrs. Bardell, with a maternal sob. “He, too, will have a companion,” resumed Mr. Pickwick, “a lively one, who’ll teach him, I’ll be bound, more tricks in a week than he would ever learn in a year.” And Mr. Pickwick smiled placidly. “Oh, you dear—” said Mrs. Bardell. Mr. Pickwick started. “Oh, you kind, good, playful dear,” said Mrs. Bardell; and without more ado, she rose from her chair, and flung her arms round Mr. Pickwick’s neck, with a cataract of tears and a chorus of sobs. “Bless my soul,” cried the astonished Mr. Pickwick; “Mrs. Bardell my good woman—dear me, what a situation—pray consider. Mrs. Bardell, don’t—if anybody should come—” “Oh, let them come,” exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, frantically; “I’ll never leave you, dear, kind, good soul”; and, with these words, Mrs. Bardell clung the tighter. “Mercy upon me,” said Mr. Pickwick, struggling violently, “I hear somebody coming up the stairs. Don’t, don’t, there’s a good creature, don’t.” But entreaty and remonstrance were alike unavailing: for Mrs. Bardell

394 Charles Dickens had fainted in Mr. Pickwick’s arms; and before he could gain time to deposit her on a chair, Master Bardell entered the room, ushering in Mr. Tupman, Mr. Winkle, and Mr. Snodgrass. Mr. Pickwick was struck motionless and speechless. He stood with his lovely burden in his arms, gazing vacantly on the countenances of his friends, without the slightest attempt at recognition or explanation. They, in their turn, stared at him; and Master Bardell, in his turn, stared at everybody. The astonishment of the Pickwickians was so absorbing, and the perplexity of Mr. Pickwick was so extreme, that they might have remained in exactly the same relative situations until the suspended animation of the lady was restored, had it not been for a most beautiful and touching expression of filial affection on the part of her youthful son. Clad in a tight suit of corduroy, spangled with brass buttons of a very considerable size, he at first stood at the door astounded and uncertain; but by degrees, the impression that his mother must have suffered some personal damage pervaded his partially developed mind, and considering Mr. Pickwick as the aggressor, he set up an appalling and semi-earthly kind of howling, and butting forward with his head, commenced assailing that immortal gentleman about the back and legs, with such blows and pinches as the strength of his arm, and the violence of his excitement, allowed. “Take this little villain away,” said the agonized Mr. Pickwick, “he’s mad.” “What is the matter?” said the three tongue-tied Pickwickians. “I don’t know,” replied Mr. Pickwick, pettishly. “Take away the boy” (here Mr. Winkle carried the interesting boy, screaming and struggling, to the further end of the apartment). “Now, help me, lead this woman downstairs.” “Oh, I am better now,” said Mrs. Bardell, faintly. “Let me lead you downstairs,” said the ever-gallant Mr. Tupman. “Thank you, sir—thank you”; exclaimed Mrs. Bardell, hysterically. And downstairs she was led accordingly, accompanied by her affectionate son. “I cannot conceive—” said Mr. Pickwick, when his friend returned, “I cannot conceive what has been the matter with that woman. I had merely announced to her my intention of keeping a man-servant, when she fell into the extraordinary paroxysm in which you found her. Very extraordinary thing.” “Very,” said his three friends. “Placed me in such an extremely awkward situation,” continued Mr. Pickwick.

395TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS “Very,” was the reply of his followers, as they coughed slightly, and looked dubiously at each other. This behaviour was not lost upon Mr. Pickwick. He remarked their incredulity. They evidently suspected him. “There is a man in the passage now,” said Mr. Tupman. “It’s the man I spoke to you about,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I sent for him up to the Borough this morning. Have the goodness to call him up, Snodgrass.” Mr. Snodgrass did as he was desired; and Mr. Samuel Weller forthwith presented himself. “Oh—you remember me, I suppose?” said Mr. Pickwick. “I should think so,” replied Sam, with a patronising wink. “Queer start that’ere, but he was one too many for you, warn’t he? Up to snuff and a pinch or two over—eh?” “Never mind that matter now,” said Mr. Pickwick hastily. “I want to speak to you about something else. Sit down.” “Thank’ee, sir,” said Sam. And down he sat without further bidding, having previously deposited his old white hat on the landing outside the door. “Ta’nt a werry good ’un to look at,” said Sam, “but it’s an astonishin’ ’un to wear; and afore the brim went, it was a werry handsome tile. Hows’ever it’s lighter without it, that’s one thing, and every hole lets in some air, that’s another—wentilation gossamer I calls it.” On the delivery of this sentiment, Mr. Weller smiled agreeably upon the assembled Pickwickians. “Now with regard to the matter on which I, with the concurrence of these gentlemen, sent for you,” said Mr. Pickwick. “That’s the pint, sir,” interposed Sam; “out vith it, as the father said to the child, wen he swallowed a farden.” “We want to know in the first place,” said Mr. Pickwick, “whether you have any reason to be discontented with your present situation.” “Afore I answers that ’ere question, gen’l’m’n,” replied Mr. Weller, “I should like to know, in the first place, whether you’re a goin’ to purwide me with a better?” A sunbeam of placid benevolence played on Mr. Pickwick’s features as he said, “I have half made up my mind to engage you myself.” “Have you, though?” said Sam. Mr. Pickwick nodded in the affirmative. “Wages?” inquired Sam. “Twelve pounds a year,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “Clothes?”

396 Charles Dickens “Two suits.” “Work?” “To attend upon me; and travel about with me and these gentlemen here.” “Take the bill down,” said Sam, emphatically. “I’m let to a single gentleman, and the terms is agreed upon.” “You accept the situation?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. “Cert’nly,” replied Sam. “If the clothes fits me half as well as the place, they’ll do.” “You can get a character of course?” said Mr. Pickwick. “Ask the landlady o’ the White Hart about that, sir,” replied Sam. “Can you come this evening?” “I’ll get into the clothes this minute, if they’re here,” said Sam with great alacrity. “Call at eight this evening,” said Mr. Pickwick; “and if the inquiries are satisfactory, they shall be provided.” With the single exception of one amiable indiscretion, in which an assistant housemaid had equally participated, the history of Mr. Weller’s conduct was so very blameless, that Mr. Pickwick felt fully justified in closing the engagement that very evening. With the promptness and energy which characterized not only the public proceedings but all the private actions of this extraordinary man, he at once led his new attendant to one of those convenient emporiums where gentlemen’s new and second-hand clothes are provided, and the troublesome and inconvenient formality of measurement dispensed with; and before night had closed in, Mr. Weller was furnished with a grey coat with the P.C. button, a black hat with a cockade to it, a pink striped waistcoat, light breeches and gaiters, and a variety of other necessaries, too numerous to recapitulate. “Well,” said that suddenly transformed individual, as he took his seat on the outside of the Eatanswill coach next morning, “I wonder whether I’m meant to be a footman, or a groom, or a gamekeeper, or a seedsman. I looks like a sort of compo of every one on ’em. Never mind; there’s change of air, plenty to see, and little to do; and all this suits my complaint uncommon; so long life to the Pickvicks, says I!” [After several Pickwickian adventures, in the course of which Sam and Mr. Pickwick are bound in mutual affection, Sam delivers a letter.] Mr. Pickwick would in all probability have gone on for some time, had not the entrance of Sam, with a letter, caused him to break off in his elo-

397TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS quent discourse. He passed his handkerchief across his forehead, took off his spectacles, wiped them, and put them on again; and his voice had recovered its wonted softness of tone when he said: “What have you there, Sam?” “Called at the Post-office just now, and found this here letter, as has laid there for two days,” replied Mr. Weller. “It’s sealed with a vafer, and directed in round hand.” “I don’t know this hand,” said Mr. Pickwick, opening the letter. “Mercy on us; what’s this? It must be a jest; it—it—can’t be true.” “What’s the matter?” was the general inquiry. “Nobody dead, is there?” said Wardle, alarmed at the horror in Mr. Pickwick’s countenance. Mr. Pickwick made no reply, but, pushing the letter across the table, and desiring Mr. Tupman to read it aloud, fell back in his chair with a look of vacant astonishment quite alarming to behold. Mr. Tupman, with a trembling voice, read the letter, of which the following is a copy: Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, August 28th, 1830. Bardell against Pickwick Sir, Having been instructed by Mrs. Martha Bardell to commence an action against you for a breach of promise of marriage, for which the plaintiff lays her damages at fifteen hundred pounds, we beg to inform you that a writ has been issued against you in this suit in the Court of Common Pleas; and request to know, by return of post, the name of your attorney in London, who will accept service thereof. We are, Sir, Your obedient servants, Dodson and Fogg Mr. Samuel Pickwick There was something so impressive in the mute astonishment with which each man regarded his neighbour, and every man regarded Mr. Pickwick, that all seemed afraid to speak. The silence was at length broken by Mr. Tupman. “Dodson and Fogg,” he repeated mechanically. “Bardell and Pickwick,” said Mr. Snodgrass, musing.

398 Charles Dickens “Peace of mind and happiness of confiding females,” murmured Mr. Winkle, with an air of abstraction. “It’s a conspiracy,” said Mr. Pickwick, at length recovering the power of speech; “a base conspiracy between these two grasping attorneys, Dodson and Fogg. Mrs. Bardell would never do it—she hasn’t the heart to do it—she hasn’t the case to do it. Ridiculous—ridiculous.” “Of her heart,” said Wardle, with a smile, “you should certainly be the best judge. I don’t wish to discourage you, but I should certainly say that, of her case, Dodson and Fogg are far better judges than any of us can be.” “It’s a vile attempt to extort money,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I hope it is,” said Wardle, with a short, dry cough. “Who ever heard me address her in any way but that in which a lodger would address his landlady?” continued Mr. Pickwick, with great vehemence. “Who ever saw me with her? Not even my friends here—” “Except on one occasion,” said Mr. Tupman. Mr. Pickwick changed colour. “Ah,” said Mr. Wardle. “Well, that’s important. There was nothing suspicious then, I suppose?” Mr. Tupman glanced timidly at his leader. “Why,” said he, “there was nothing suspicious; but—I don’t know how it happened, mind—she certainly was reclining in his arms.” “Gracious powers!” ejaculated Mr. Pickwick, as the recollection of the scene in question struck forcibly upon him; “what a dreadful instance of the force of circumstances! So she was—so she was.” “And our friend was soothing her anguish,” said Mr. Winkle, rather maliciously. “So I was,” said Mr. Pickwick. “I won’t deny it. So I was.” “Hallo!” said Wardle; “for a case in which there’s nothing suspicious, this looks rather queer—eh, Pickwick? Ah, sly dog—sly dog!” and he laughed till the glasses on the sideboard rang again. “What a dreadful conjunction of appearances!” exclaimed Mr. Pickwick, resting his chin upon his hands. “Winkle—Tupman—I beg your pardon for the observations I made just now. We are all the victims of circumstances, and I the greatest.” With this apology Mr. Pickwick buried his head in his hands, and ruminated; while Wardle measured out a regular circle of nods and winks, addressed to the other members of the company. “I’ll have it explained, though,” said Mr. Pickwick, raising his head and hammering the table. “I’ll see this Dodson and Fogg! I’ll go to London tomorrow.”

399TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS “Not to-morrow,” said Wardle; “you’re too lame.” “Well, then, next day.” “Next day is the first of September, and you’re pledged to ride out with us, as far as Sir Geoffrey Manning’s grounds, at all events, and to meet us at lunch, if you don’t take the field.” “Well, then, the day after,” said Mr. Pickwick; “Thursday. Sam!” “Sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “Take two places outside to London, on Thursday morning, for yourself and me.” “Wery well, sir.” Mr. Weller left the room, and departed slowly on his errand, with his hands in his pockets and his eyes fixed on the ground. “Rum feller, the hemperor,” said Mr. Weller as he walked slowly up the street. “Think o’ his making up to that ere Mrs. Bardell—vith a little boy, too! Always the vay with these here old ’uns hows’ever, as is such steady goers to look at. I didn’t think he’d ha’ done it, though—I didn’t think he’d ha’done it!” Moralising in this strain, Mr. Samuel Weller bent his steps towards the booking-office. [Mr. Pickwick, unbelieving, visits Mrs. Bardell’s attorneys.] In the ground-floor front of a dingy house, at the very furthest end of Freeman’s Court, Cornhill, sat the four clerks of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, two of His Majesty’s Attorneys of the Courts of King’s Bench and Common Pleas at Westminster, and solicitors of the High Court of Chancery: the aforesaid clerks catching as favourable glimpses of Heaven’s light and Heaven’s sun, in the course of their daily labours, as a man might hope to do, were he placed at the bottom of a reasonably deep well; and without the opportunity of perceiving the stars in the day- time, which the latter secluded situation affords. The clerks’ office of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg was a dark, mouldy, earthy-smelling room, with a high wainscoted partition to screen the clerks from the vulgar gaze: a couple of old wooden chairs, a very loud-ticking clock, an almanac, an umbrella-stand, a row of hat-pegs, and a few shelves, on which were deposited several ticketed bundles of dirty papers, some old deal boxes with paper labels, and sundry decayed stone ink bottles of various shapes and sizes. There was a glass door leading into the passage which formed the entrance to the court, and on the outer side of this glass door, Mr. Pickwick, closely followed by Sam Weller, presented himself on the [succeeding] Friday morning. . . . “Come in, can’t you!” cried a voice from behind the partition, in reply

400 Charles Dickens to Mr. Pickwick’s gentle tap at the door. And Mr. Pickwick and Sam entered accordingly. “Mr. Dodson or Mr. Fogg at home, sir?” inquired Mr. Pickwick, gently, advancing, hat in hand, towards the partition. “Mr. Dodson ain’t at home, and Mr. Fogg’s particularly engaged,” replied the voice; and at the same time the head to which the voice belonged, with a pen behind its ear, looked over the partition, and at Mr. Pickwick. It was a ragged head, the sandy hair of which, scrupulously parted on one side, and flattened down with pomatum, was twisted into little semi-circular tails round a flat face ornamented with a pair of small eyes, and garnished with a very dirty shirt collar, and a rusty black stock. “Mr. Dodson ain’t at home, and Mr. Fogg’s particularly engaged,” said the man to whom the head belonged. “When will Mr. Dodson be back, sir?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. “Can’t say.” “Will it be long before Mr. Fogg is disengaged, sir?” “Don’t know.” Here the man proceeded to mend his pen with great deliberation, while another clerk, who was mixing a Seidlitz powder, under cover of the lid of his desk, laughed approvingly. “I think I’ll wait,” said Mr. Pickwick. There was no reply; so Mr. Pickwick sat down unbidden, and listened to the loud ticking of the clock and the murmured conversation of the clerks. “That was a game, wasn’t it?” said one of the gentlemen, in a brown coat and brass buttons, inky drabs, and bluchers, at the conclusion of some inaudible relation of his previous evening’s adventures. “Devilish good—devilish good,” said the Seidlitz-powder man. “Tom Cummins was in the chair,” said the man with the brown coat; “It was half past four when I got to Somers Town, and then I was so uncommon lushy that I couldn’t find the place where the latch-key went in, and was obliged to knock up the old ’ooman. I say, I wonder what old Fogg ’ud say, if he knew it. I should get the sack, I s’pose—eh?” At this humorous notion, all the clerks laughed in concert. “There was such a game with Fogg here, this mornin’,” said the man in the brown coat, “while Jack was upstairs sorting the papers, and you two were gone to the stamp office. Fogg was down here, opening the letters, when that chap as we issued the writ against at Camberwell, you know, came in—what’s his name again?” “Ramsey,” said the clerk who had spoken to Mr. Pickwick.

401TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS “Ah, Ramsey—a precious seedy-looking customer. ‘Well, sir,’ says old Fogg, looking at him very fierce—you know his way—‘well, sir, have you come to settle?’ ‘Yes, I have, sir,’ said Ramsey, putting his hand in his pocket, and bringing out the money, ‘the debt’s two pound ten, and the costs three pound five, and here it is, sir’; and he sighed like bricks as he lugged out the money, done up in a bit of blotting-paper. Old Fogg looked first at the money, and then at him, and then he coughed in his rum way, so that I knew something was coming. ‘You don’t know there’s a declaration filed, which increases the costs materially, I suppose?’ said Fogg. ‘You don’t say that, sir,’ said Ramsey, starting back; ‘the time was only out last night, sir.’ ‘I do say it, though,’ said Fogg, ‘my clerk’s just gone to file it. Hasn’t Mr. Jackson gone to file that declaration in Bullman and Ramsey, Mr. Wicks?’ Of course I said yes, and then Fogg coughed again, and looked at Ramsey. ‘My God!’ said Ramsey; ‘and here have I nearly driven myself mad, scraping this money together, and all to no purpose.’ ‘None at all,’ said Fogg, coolly; ‘so you had better go back and scrape some more together, and bring it here in time.’ ‘I can’t get it, by God!’ said Ramsey, striking the desk with his fist. ‘Don’t bully me, sir,’ said Fogg, getting into a passion on purpose. ‘I am not bullying you, sir,’ said Ramsey. ‘You are,’ said Fogg; ‘get out, sir; get out of this office, sir, and come back, sir, when you know how to behave yourself.’ Well, Ramsey tried to speak, but Fogg wouldn’t let him, so he put the money in his pocket, and sneaked out. The door was scarcely shut, when old Fogg turned round to me, with a sweet smile on his face, and drew the declaration out of his coat pocket. ‘Here, Wicks,’ says Fogg, ‘take a cab, and go down to the Temple as quick as you can, and file that. The costs are quite safe, for he’s a steady man with a large family, at a salary of five-and-twenty shillings a week, and if he gives us a warrant of attorney, as he must in the end, I know his employers will see it paid; so we may as well get all we can out of him, Mr. Wicks; it’s a Christian act to do it, Mr. Wicks, for with his large family and small income, he’ll be all the better for a good lesson against getting into debt—won’t he, Mr. Wicks, won’t he?’—and he smiled so good-naturedly as he went away that it was delightful to see him. He is a capital man of business,” said Wicks, in a tone of the deepest admiration, “capital, isn’t he?” The other three cordially subscribed to this opinion, and the anecdote afforded the most unlimited satisfaction. “Nice men these here, sir,” whispered Mr. Weller to his master; “wery nice notion of fun they has, sir.” Mr. Pickwick nodded assent, and coughed to attract the attention of the

402 Charles Dickens young gentlemen behind the partition, who, having now relaxed their minds by a little conversation among themselves, condescended to take some notice of the stranger. “I wonder whether Fogg’s disengaged now?” said Jackson. “I’ll see,” said Wicks, dismounting leisurely from his stool. “What name shall I tell Mr. Fogg?” “Pickwick,” replied the illustrious subject of these memoirs. Mr. Jackson departed upstairs on his errand, and immediately returned with a message that Mr. Fogg would see Mr. Pickwick in five minutes; and having delivered it, returned again to his desk. “What did he say his name was?” whispered Wicks. “Pickwick,” replied Jackson; “it’s the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick.” A sudden scraping of feet, mingled with the sound of suppressed laughter, was heard from behind the partition. “They’re a twiggin’ of you, sir,” whispered Mr. Weller. “Twigging of me, Sam!” replied Mr. Pickwick; “what do you mean by twigging me?” Mr. Weller replied by pointing with his thumb over his shoulder, and Mr. Pickwick, on looking up, became sensible of the pleasing fact that all the four clerks, with countenances expressive of the utmost amusement, and with their heads thrust over the wooden screen, were minutely inspecting the figure and general appearance of the supposed trifler with female hearts, and disturber of female happiness. On his looking up, the row of heads suddenly disappeared, and the sound of pens travelling at a furious rate over paper, immediately succeeded. A sudden ring at the bell which hung in the office summoned Mr. Jackson to the apartment of Fogg, from whence he came back to say that he (Fogg) was ready to see Mr. Pickwick if he would step upstairs. Upstairs Mr. Pickwick did step accordingly, leaving Sam Weller below. The room door of the one-pair back bore inscribed in legible characters the imposing words “Mr. Fogg”; and, having tapped thereat, and been desired to come in, Jackson ushered Mr. Pickwick into the presence. “Is Mr. Dodson in?” inquired Mr. Fogg. “Just come in, sir,” replied Jackson. “Ask him to step here.” “Yes, sir.” Exit Jackson. “Take a seat, sir,” said Fogg; “there is the paper, sir; my partner will be here directly, and we can converse about this matter, sir.” Mr. Pickwick took a seat and the paper, but instead of reading the lat-

403TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS ter, peeped over the top of it, and took a survey of the man of business, who was an elderly, pimply-faced, vegetable-diet sort of man, in a black coat, dark-mixture trousers, and small black gaiters; a kind of being who seemed to be an essential part of the desk at which he was writing, and to have as much thought or sentiment. After a few minutes’ silence, Mr. Dodson, a plump, portly, stern-looking man, with a loud voice, appeared; and the conversation commenced. “This is Mr. Pickwick,” said Fogg. “Ah! You are the defendant, sir, in Bardell and Pickwick?” said Dodson. “I am, sir,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “Well, sir,” said Dodson, “and what do you propose?” “Ah!” said Fogg, thrusting his hands into his trouser pockets, and throwing himself back in his chair, “what do you propose, Mr. Pickwick?” “Hush, Fogg,” said Dodson, “let me hear what Mr. Pickwick has to say.” “I came, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pickwick, gazing placidly on the two partners, “I came here, gentlemen, to express the surprise with which I received your letter of the other day, and to inquire what grounds of action you can have against me.” “Grounds of—” Fogg had ejaculated this much, when he was stopped by Dodson. “Mr. Fogg,” said Dodson, “I am going to speak.” “I beg your pardon, Mr. Dodson,” said Fogg. “For the grounds of action, sir,” continued Dodson, with moral elevation in his air, “you will consult your own conscience and your own feelings. We, sir, we, are guided entirely by the statement of our client. That statement, sir, may be true, or it may be false; it may be credible, or it may be incredible; but if it be true, and if it be credible, I do not hesitate to say, sir, that our grounds of action, sir, are strong, and not to be shaken. You may be an unfortunate man, sir, or you may be a designing one; but if I were called upon, as a juryman upon my oath, sir, to express an opinion of your conduct, sir, I do not hesitate to assert that I should have but one opinion about it.” Here Dodson drew himself up, with an air of offended virtue, and looked at Fogg, who thrust his hands further in his pockets and, nodding his head sagely, said, in a tone of the fullest concurrence, “Most certainly.” “Well, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, with considerable pain depicted in his countenance, “you will permit me to assure you that I am a most unfortunate man, so far as this case is concerned.” “I hope you are, sir,” replied Dodson; “I trust you may be, sir. If you are really innocent of what is laid to your charge, you are more unfortunate

404 Charles Dickens than I had believed any man could possibly be. What do you say, Mr. Fogg?” “I say precisely what you say,” replied Fogg, with a smile of incredulity. “The writ, sir, which commences the action,” continued Dodson, “was issued regularly. Mr. Fogg, where is the praecipe book?” “Here it is,” said Fogg, handing over a square book with a parchment cover. “Here is the entry,” resumed Dodson. “‘Middlesex, Capias Martha Bardell, widow, v. Samuel Pickwick. Damages, £1,500. Dodson and Fogg for the plaintiff, Aug. 28, 1830.’ All regular, sir; perfectly.” Dodson coughed and looked at Fogg, who said, “Perfectly,” also. And then they both looked at Mr. Pickwick. “I am to understand, then,” said Mr. Pickwick, “that it really is your intention to proceed with this action?” “Understand, sir? That you certainly may,” replied Dodson, with something as near a smile as his importance would allow. “And that the damages are actually laid at fifteen hundred pounds?” said Mr. Pickwick. “To which understanding you may add my assurance that if we could have prevailed upon our client, they would have been laid at treble the amount, sir,” replied Dodson. “I believe Mrs. Bardell specially said, however,” observed Fogg, glancing at Dodson, “that she would not compromise for a farthing less.” “Unquestionably,” replied Dodson, sternly. For the action was only just begun; and it wouldn’t have done to let Mr. Pickwick compromise it then, even if he had been so disposed. “As you offer no terms, sir,” said Dodson, displaying a slip of parchment in his right hand, and affectionately pressing a paper copy of it on Mr. Pickwick with his left, “I had better serve you with a copy of this writ, sir. Here is the original, sir.” “Very well, gentlemen, very well,” said Mr. Pickwick, rising in person and wrath at the same time; “you shall hear from my solicitor, gentlemen.” “We shall be very happy to do so,” said Fogg, rubbing his hands. “Very,” said Dodson, opening the door. “And before I go, gentlemen,” said the excited Mr. Pickwick, turning round on the landing, “permit me to say, that of all the disgraceful and rascally proceedings—” “Stay, sir, stay,” interposed Dodson, with great politeness. “Mr. Jackson! Mr. Wicks!” “Sir,” said the two clerks, appearing at the bottom of the stairs.

405TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS “I merely want you to hear what this gentleman says,” replied Dodson. “Pray, go on, sir—disgraceful and rascally proceedings, I think you said?” “I did,” said Mr. Pickwick, thoroughly roused. “I said, sir, that of all the disgraceful and rascally proceedings that ever were attempted, this is the most so. I repeat it, sir.” “You hear that, Mr. Wicks?” said Dodson. “You won’t forget these expressions, Mr. Jackson?” said Fogg. “Perhaps you would like to call us swindlers, sir,” said Dodson. “Pray do, sir, if you feel disposed; now pray do, sir.” “I do,” said Mr. Pickwick. “You are swindlers.” “Very good,” said Dodson. “You can hear down there, I hope, Mr. Wicks?” “Oh yes, sir,” said Wicks. “You had better come up a step or two higher, if you can’t,” added Mr. Fogg. “Go on, sir; do go on. You had better call us thieves, sir; or perhaps you would like to assault one of us. Pray do it, sir, if you would; we will not make the smallest resistance. Pray do it, sir.” As Fogg put himself very temptingly within the reach of Mr. Pick- wick’s clenched fist, there is little doubt that that gentleman would have complied with his earnest entreaty, but for the interposition of Sam, who, hearing the dispute, emerged from the office, mounted the stairs, and seized his master by the arm. “You just come avay,” said Mr. Weller. “Battledore and shuttlecock’s a wery good game, vhen you an’t the shuttlecock and two lawyers the battledores, in which case it gets too excitin’ to be pleasant. Come avay, sir. If you want to ease your mind by blowing up somebody, come out into the court and blow up me; but it’s rayther too expensive work to be carried on here.” And without the slightest ceremony, Mr. Weller hauled his master down the stairs, and down the court, and having safely deposited him in Cornhill, fell behind, prepared to follow whithersoever he should lead. [Mr. Pickwick, after some adventures in the country, is still very much in the dark, and sends Sam to reconnoiter.] . . . Mr. Pickwick resolved on immediately returning to London, with the view of becoming acquainted with the proceedings which had been taken against him, in the meantime, by Messrs. Dodson and Fogg. Acting upon this resolution with all the energy and decision of his character, he mounted to the back seat of the first coach which left Ipswich in the

406 Charles Dickens morning . . . ; and accompanied by his three friends, and Mr. Samuel Weller, arrived in the metropolis, in perfect health and safety, the same evening. Here, the friends, for a short time, separated. Messrs. Tupman, Winkle, and Snodgrass repaired to their several homes to make such preparations as might be requisite for their forthcoming visit to Dingley Dell; and Mr. Pickwick and Sam took up their present abode in very good, old- fashioned, and comfortable quarters: to wit, the George and Vulture Tavern and Hotel, George Yard, Lombard Street. Mr. Pickwick had dined, finished his second pint of particular port, pulled his silk handkerchief over his head, put his feet on the fender, and thrown himself back in an easy chair, when the entrance of Mr. Weller with his carpet-bag aroused him from his tranquil meditations. “Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Sir,” said Mr. Weller. “I have just been thinking, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “that having left a good many things at Mrs. Bardell’s, in Goswell Street, I ought to arrange for taking them away, before I leave town again.” “Wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller. “I could send them to Mr. Tupman’s, for the present, Sam,” continued Mr. Pickwick, “but before we take them away, it is necessary that they should be looked up, and put together. I wish you would step up to Goswell Street, Sam, and arrange about it.” “At once, sir?” inquired Mr. Weller. “At once,” replied Mr. Pickwick. “And stay, Sam,” added Mr. Pickwick, pulling out his purse. “There is some rent to pay. The quarter is not due till Christmas, but you may pay it, and have done with it. A month’s notice terminates my tenancy. Here it is, written out. Give it, and tell Mrs. Bardell she may put a bill up, as soon as she likes.” “Wery good, sir,” replied Mr. Weller; “anythin’ more, sir?” “Nothing more, Sam.” Mr. Weller stepped slowly to the door, as if he expected something more; slowly opened it, slowly stepped out, and had slowly closed it within a couple of inches, when Mr. Pickwick called out, “Sam.” “Sir,” said Mr. Weller, stepping quickly back, and closing the door behind him. “I have no objection, Sam, to your endeavouring to ascertain how Mrs. Bardell herself seems disposed towards me, and whether it is really probable that this vile and groundless action is to be carried to extremity.

407TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS I say I do not object to your doing this, if you wish it, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick. Sam gave a short nod of intelligence, and left the room. Mr. Pickwick drew the silk handkerchief once more over his head, and composed himself for a nap. Mr. Weller promptly walked forth, to execute his commission. It was nearly nine o’clock when he reached Goswell Street. A couple of candles were burning in the little front parlour, and a couple of caps were reflected on the window-blind. Mrs. Bardell had got company. Mr. Weller knocked at the door, and after a pretty long interval— occupied by the party without, in whistling a tune, and by the party within, in persuading a refractory flat candle to allow itself to be lighted— a pair of small boots pattered over the floor-cloth, and Master Bardell presented himself. “Well, young town-skip,” said Sam, “how’s mother?” “She’s pretty well,” replied Master Bardell, “so am I.” “Well, that’s a mercy,” said Sam; “tell her I want to speak to her, will you, my hinfant fernomenon?” Master Bardell, thus adjured, placed the refractory flat candle on the bottom stair, and vanished into the front parlour with the message. The two caps, reflected on the window-blind, were the respective head-dresses of a couple of Mrs. Bardell’s most particular acquaintance, who had just stepped in, to have a quiet cup of tea, and a little warm supper of a couple of sets of pettitoes and some toasted cheese. The cheese was simmering and browning away, most delightfully, in a little Dutch oven before the fire; the pettitoes were getting on deliciously in a little tin saucepan on the hob; and Mrs. Bardell and her two friends were getting on very well, also in a little quiet conversation about and concerning all their particular friends and acquaintance; when Master Bardell came back from answering the door, and delivered the message intrusted to him by Mr. Samuel Weller. “Mr. Pickwick’s servant!” said Mrs. Bardell, turning pale. “Bless my soul!” said Mrs. Cluppins. “Well, I raly would not ha’ believed it, unless I had ha’ happened to ha’ been here!” said Mrs. Sanders. Mrs. Cluppins was a little, brisk, busy-looking woman; Mrs. Sanders was a big, fat, heavy-faced personage; and the two were the company. Mrs. Bardell felt it proper to be agitated; and as none of the three exactly knew whether, under existing circumstances, any communication, otherwise than through Dodson and Fogg, ought to be held with Mr.

408 Charles Dickens Pickwick’s servant, they were all rather taken by surprise. In this state of indecision, obviously the first thing to be done was to thump the boy for finding Mr. Weller at the door. So his mother thumped him, and he cried melodiously. “Hold your noise—do—you naughty creetur!” said Mrs. Bardell. “Yes; don’t worrit your poor mother,” said Mrs. Sanders. “She’s quite enough to worrit her, as it is, without you, Tommy,” said Mrs. Cluppins, with sympathizing resignation. “Ah! worse luck, poor lamb!” said Mrs. Sanders. At all which moral reflections, Master Bardell howled the louder. “Now, what shall I do?” said Mrs. Bardell to Mrs. Cluppins. “I think you ought to see him,” replied Mrs. Cluppins. “But on no account without a witness.” “I think two witnesses would be more lawful,” said Mrs. Sanders, who, like the other friend, was bursting with curiosity. “Perhaps he’d better come in here,” said Mrs. Bardell. “To be sure,” replied Mrs. Cluppins, eagerly catching at the idea; “Walk in, young man; and shut the street door first, please.” Mr. Weller immediately took the hint; and presenting himself in the parlour, explained his business to Mrs. Bardell thus: “Wery sorry to ’casion any personal inconwenience, ma’am, as the housebreaker said to the old lady when he put her on the fire; but as me and my governor’s only jest come to town, and is jest going away agin, it can’t be helped, you see.” “Of course, the young man can’t help the faults of his master,” said Mrs. Cluppins, much struck by Mr. Weller’s appearance and conversation. “Certainly not,” chimed in Mrs. Sanders, who, from certain wistful glances at the little tin saucepan, seemed to be engaged in a mental calculation of the probable extent of the pettitoes, in the event of Sam’s being asked to stop to supper. “So all I’ve come about, is jest this here,” said Sam, disregarding the interruption; “First, to give my governor’s notice—there it is. Secondly, to pay the rent—here it is. Thirdly, to say as all his things is to be put together, and give to anybody as we sends for ’em. Fourthly, that you may let the place as soon as you like—and that’s all.” “Whatever has happened,” said Mrs. Bardell, “I always have said, and always will say, that in every respect but one, Mr. Pickwick has always behaved himself like a perfect gentleman. His money always was as good as the bank: always.”

409TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS As Mrs. Bardell said this, she applied her handkerchief to her eyes, and went out of the room to get the receipt. Sam well knew that he had only to remain quiet, and the women were sure to talk; so he looked alternately at the tin saucepan, the toasted cheese, the wall, and the ceiling, in profound silence. “Poor dear!” said Mrs. Cluppins. “Ah, poor thing!” replied Mrs. Sanders. Sam said nothing. He saw they were coming to the subject. “I raly cannot contain myself,” said Mrs. Cluppins, “when I think of such perjury. I don’t wish to say anything to make you uncomfortable, young man, but your master’s an old brute, and I wish I had him here to tell him so.” “I wish you had,” said Sam. “To see how dreadful she takes on, going moping about, and taking no pleasure in nothing, except when her friends come in, out of charity, to sit with her, and make her comfortable,” resumed Mrs. Cluppins, glancing at the tin saucepan and the Dutch oven, “it’s shocking!” “Barbareous,” said Mrs. Sanders. “And your master, young man! A gentleman with money, as could never feel the expense of a wife, no more than nothing,” continued Mrs. Cluppins, with great volubility; “why there ain’t the faintest shade of an excuse for his behaviour! Why don’t he marry her?” “Ah,” said Sam, “to be sure; that’s the question.” “Question, indeed,” retorted Mrs. Cluppins; “she’d question him, if she’d my spirit. Hows’ever, there is law for us women, mis’rable creeturs as they’d make us, if they could; and that your master will find out, young man, to his cost, afore he’s six months older.” At this consolatory reflection, Mrs. Cluppins bridled up, and smiled at Mrs. Sanders, who smiled back again. “The action’s going on, and no mistake,” thought Sam, as Mrs. Bardell re-entered with the receipt. “Here’s the receipt, Mr. Weller,” said Mrs. Bardell, “and here’s the change, and I hope you’ll take a little drop of something to keep the cold out, if it’s only for old acquaintance’ sake, Mr. Weller.” Sam saw the advantage he should gain, and at once acquiesced; whereupon Mrs. Bardell produced, from a small closet, a black bottle and a wine glass; and so great was her abstraction in her deep mental affliction that after filling Mr. Weller’s glass, she brought out three more wine glasses, and filled them too.

410 Charles Dickens “Lauk, Mrs. Bardell,” said Mrs. Cluppins, “see what you’ve been and done!” “Well, that is a good one!” ejaculated Mrs. Sanders. “Ah, my poor head!” said Mrs. Bardell, with a faint smile. Sam understood all this, of course, so he said at once that he never could drink before supper unless a lady drank with him. A great deal of laughing ensued, and Mrs. Sanders volunteered to humour him, so she took a slight sip out of her glass. Then, Sam said it must go all round, so they all took a slight sip. Then, little Mrs. Cluppins proposed as a toast, “Success to Bardell agin Pickwick”; and then the ladies emptied their glasses in honour of the sentiment, and got very talkative directly. “I suppose you’ve heard what’s going forward, Mr. Weller?” said Mrs. Bardell. “I’ve heerd somethin’ on it,” replied Sam. “It’s a terrible thing to be dragged before the public, in that way, Mr. Weller,” said Mrs. Bardell; “but I see now that it’s the only thing I ought to do, and my lawyers, Mr. Dodson and Fogg, tell me, that with the evidence as we shall call, we must succeed. I don’t know what I should do, Mr. Weller, if I didn’t.” The mere idea of Mrs. Bardell’s failing in her action affected Mrs. Sanders so deeply that she was under the necessity of refilling and re-emptying her glass immediately, feeling, as she said afterwards, that if she hadn’t had the presence of mind to do so, she must have dropped. “Ven is it expected to come on?” inquired Sam. “Either in February or March,” replied Mrs. Bardell. “What a number of witnesses there’ll be, won’t there?” said Mrs. Clu- ppins. “Ah, won’t there!” replied Mrs. Sanders. “And won’t Mr. Dodson and Fogg be wild if the plaintiff shouldn’t get it?” added Mrs. Cluppins, “when they do it all on speculation!” “Ah! won’t they!” said Mrs. Sanders. “But the plaintiff must get it,” resumed Mrs. Cluppins. “I hope so,” said Mrs. Bardell. “Oh, there can’t be any doubt about it,” rejoined Mrs. Sanders. “Vell,” said Sam, rising and setting down his glass, “All I can say is, that I wish you may get it.” “Thank’ee, Mr. Weller,” said Mrs. Bardell fervently. “And of them Dodson and Foggs, as does these sort o’ things on spec,” continued Mr. Weller, “as well as for the other kind and gen’rous people o’ the same purfession, as sets people by the ears, free gratis for nothin’,

411TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS and set their clerks to work to find out little disputes among their neighbours and acquaintances as vants settlin’ by means o’ lawsuits—all I can say o’ them is that I vish they had the revard I’d give ’em.” “Ah, I wish they had the reward that every kind and generous heart would be inclined to bestow upon them!” said the gratified Mrs. Bardell. “Amen to that,” replied Sam, “and a fat and happy livin’ they’d get out of it! Wish you good night, ladies.” To the great relief of Mrs. Sanders, Sam was allowed to depart without any reference, on the part of the hostess, to the pettitoes and toasted cheese, to which the ladies, with such juvenile assistance as Master Bardell could afford, soon afterwards rendered the amplest justice—indeed they wholly vanished before their strenuous exertions. Mr. Weller went his way back to the George and Vulture, and faithfully recounted to his master such indications of the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg as he had contrived to pick up in his visit to Mrs. Bardell’s. An interview with Mr. Perker, next day, more than confirmed Mr. Weller’s statement; and Mr. Pickwick was fain to prepare for his Christmas visit to Dingley Dell, with the pleasant anticipation that, some two or three months afterwards, an action brought against him for damages sustained by reason of a breach of promise of marriage would be publicly tried in the Court of Common Pleas: the plaintiff having all the advantages derivable, not only from the force of circumstances, but from the sharp practice of Dodson and Fogg to boot. . . . Scattered about, in various holes and corners of the Temple, are certain dark and dirty chambers, in and out of which, all the morning in Vacation, and half the evening too in Term time, there may be seen con- stantly hurrying with bundles of papers under their arms, and protruding from their pockets, an almost uninterrupted succession of Lawyers’ Clerks. There are several grades of Lawyers’ Clerks. There is the Articled Clerk, who has paid a premium, and is an attorney in perspective, who runs a tailor’s bill, receives invitations to parties, knows a family in Gower Street, and another in Tavistock Square, who goes out of town every Long Vacation to see his father, who keeps live horses innumerable, and who is, in short, the very aristocrat of clerks. There is the salaried clerk—out of door, or in door, as the case may be—who devotes the major part of his thirty shillings a week to his personal pleasure and adornment, repairs half-price to the Adelphi Theatre at least three times a week, dissipates majestically at the cider cellars afterwards, and is a dirty cari- cature of the fashion which expired six months ago. There is the middle-

412 Charles Dickens aged copying clerk, with a large family, who is always shabby, and often drunk. And there are the office lads in their first surtouts, who feel a befitting contempt for boys at day-schools: club as they go home at night, for saveloys and porter: and think there’s nothing like “life.” There are varieties of the genus, too numerous to recapitulate, but however numerous they may be, they are all to be seen, at certain regulated business hours, hurrying to and from the places we have just mentioned. These sequestered nooks are the public offices of the legal profession, where writs are issued, judgments signed, declarations filed, and numerous other ingenious machines put in motion for the torture and torment of His Majesty’s liege subjects, and the comfort and emolument of the practitioners of the law. They are, for the most part, low-roofed, mouldy rooms, where innumerable rolls of parchment, which have been perspiring in secret for the last century, send forth an agreeable odour, which is mingled by day with the scent of the dry rot, and by night with the various exhalations which arise from damp cloaks, festering umbrellas, and the coarsest tallow candles. About half-past seven o’clock in the evening, some ten days or a fortnight after Mr. Pickwick and his friends returned to London, there hurried into one of these offices an individual in a brown coat and brass buttons, whose long hair was scrupulously twisted round the rim of his napless hat, and whose soiled drab trousers were so tightly strapped over his blucher boots, that his knees threatened every moment to start from their concealment. He produced from his coat pockets a long and narrow strip of parchment, on which the presiding functionary impressed an illegible black stamp. He then drew forth four scraps of paper, of similar dimensions, each containing a printed copy of the strip of parchment with blanks for a name; and having filled up the blanks, put all the five documents in his pocket and hurried away. The man in the brown coat, with the cabalistic documents in his pocket, was no other than our old acquaintance Mr. Jackson, of the house of Dodson and Fogg, Freeman’s Court, Cornhill. Instead of returning to the office from whence he came, however, he bent his steps direct to Sun Court, and walking straight into the George and Vulture, demanded to know whether one Mr. Pickwick was within. “Call Mr. Pickwick’s servant, Tom,” said the barmaid of the George and Vulture. “Don’t trouble yourself,” said Mr. Jackson, “I’ve come on business. If you’ll show me Mr. Pickwick’s room I’ll step up myself.” “What name, sir?” said the waiter.

413TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS “Jackson,” replied the clerk. The waiter stepped upstairs to announce Mr. Jackson; but Mr. Jackson saved him the trouble by following close at his heels, and walking into the apartment before he could articulate a syllable. Mr. Pickwick had, that day, invited his three friends to dinner; they were all seated round the fire, drinking their wine, when Mr. Jackson presented himself, as above described. “How de do, sir?” said Mr. Jackson, nodding to Mr. Pickwick. That gentleman bowed, and looked somewhat surprised, for the physiognomy of Mr. Jackson dwelt not in his recollection. “I have called from Dodson and Fogg’s,” said Mr. Jackson, in an explanatory tone. Mr. Pickwick roused at the name. “I refer you to my attorney, sir: Mr. Perker, of Gray’s Inn,” said he. “Waiter, show this gentleman out.” “Beg your pardon, Mr. Pickwick,” said Jackson, deliberately depositing his hat on the floor, and drawing from his pocket the strip of parchment. “But personal service, by clerk or agent, in these cases, you know, Mr. Pickwick—nothing like caution, sir, in all legal forms?” Here Mr. Jackson cast his eye on the parchment; and, resting his hands on the table, and looking round with a winning and persuasive smile, said: “Now, come; don’t let’s have no words about such a little matter as this. Which of you gentleman’s name’s Snodgrass?” At this inquiry Mr. Snodgrass gave such a very undisguised and palpable start that no further reply was needed. “Ah! I thought so,” said Mr. Jackson, more affably than before. “I’ve got a little something to trouble you with, sir.” “Me!” exclaimed Mr. Snodgrass. “It’s only a subpoena in Bardell and Pickwick on behalf of the plaintiff,” replied Jackson, singling out one of the slips of paper, and producing a shilling from his waistcoat pocket. “It’ll come on, in the settens after Term; fourteenth of Febooary, we expect; we’ve marked it a special jury cause, and it’s only ten down the paper. That’s yours, Mr. Snodgrass.” As Jackson said this he presented the parchment before the eyes of Mr. Snodgrass, and slipped the paper and the shilling into his hand. Mr. Tupman had witnessed this process in silent astonishment, when Jackson, turning sharply upon him, said: “I think I ain’t mistaken when I say your name’s Tupman, am I?” Mr. Tupman looked at Mr. Pickwick; but, perceiving no encouragement in that gentleman’s widely opened eyes to deny his name, said: “Yes, my name is Tupman, sir.”

414 Charles Dickens “And that other gentleman’s Mr. Winkle, I think?” said Jackson. Mr. Winkle faltered out a reply in the affirmative; and both gentlemen were forthwith invested with a slip of paper, and a shilling each, by the dexterous Mr. Jackson. “Now,” said Jackson, “I’m afraid you’ll think me rather troublesome, but I want somebody else, if it ain’t inconvenient. I have Samuel Weller’s name here, Mr. Pickwick.” “Send my servant here, waiter,” said Mr. Pickwick. The waiter retired, considerably astonished, and Mr. Pickwick motioned Jackson to a seat. There was a painful pause, which was at length broken by the innocent defendant. “I suppose, sir,” said Mr. Pickwick, his indignation rising while he spoke; “I suppose, sir, that it is the intention of your employers to seek to criminate me upon the testimony of my own friends?” Mr. Jackson struck his forefinger several times against the left side of his nose, to intimate that he was not there to disclose the secrets of the prison-house, and playfully rejoined: “Not knowin’, can’t say.” “For what other reason, sir,” pursued Mr. Pickwick, “are these subpoenas served upon them, if not for this?” “Very good plant, Mr. Pickwick,” replied Jackson, slowly shaking his head. “But it won’t do. No harm in trying, but there’s little to be got out of me.” Here Mr. Jackson smiled once more upon the company, and, applying his left thumb to the tip of his nose, worked a visionary coffee-mill with his right hand: thereby performing a very graceful piece of pantomime (then much in vogue, but now, unhappily, almost obsolete) which was familiarly denominated “taking a grinder.” “No, no, Mr. Pickwick,” said Jackson, in conclusion; “Perker’s people must guess what we’ve served these subpoenas for. If they can’t, they must wait till the action comes on, and then they’ll find out.” Mr. Pickwick bestowed a look of excessive disgust on his unwelcome visitor, and would probably have hurled some tremendous anathema at the heads of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, had not Sam’s entrance at the instant interrupted him. “Samuel Weller,” said Mr. Jackson, inquiringly. “Vun o’ the truest things as you’ve said for many a long year,” replied Sam, in a most composed manner. “Here’s a subpoena for you, Mr. Weller,” said Jackson. “What’s that in English?” inquired Sam.

415TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS “Here’s the original,” said Jackson, declining the required explanation. “Which?” said Sam. “This,” replied Jackson, shaking the parchment. “Oh, that’s the ’rig’nal, is it?” said Sam. “Well, I’m wery glad I’ve seen the ’rig’nal, cos it’s a gratifyin’ sort o’ thing, and eases vun’s mind so much.” “And here’s the shilling,” said Jackson. “It’s from Dodson and Fogg’s.” “And it’s uncommon handsome o’ Dodson and Fogg, as knows so little of me, to come down vith a present,” said Sam. “I feel it as a wery high compliment, sir; it’s a wery hon’rable thing to them, as they knows how to reward merit werever they meets it. Besides wich, it’s affectin’ to one’s feelin’s.” As Mr. Weller said this, he inflicted a little friction on his right eyelid, with the sleeve of his coat, after most approved manner of actors when they are in domestic pathetics. Mr. Jackson seemed rather puzzled by Sam’s proceedings; but, as he had served the subpoenas, and had nothing more to say, he made a feint of putting on the one glove which he usually carried in his hand, for the sake of appearances; and returned to the office to report progress. Mr. Pickwick slept little that night; his memory had received a very disagreeable refresher on the subject of Mrs. Bardell’s action. He breakfasted betimes next morning, and, desiring Sam to accompany him, set forth towards Gray’s Inn Square. “Sam!” said Mr. Pickwick, looking round, when they got to the end of Cheapside. “Sir?” said Sam, stepping up to his master. “Which way?” “Up Newgate Street.” Mr. Pickwick did not turn round immediately, but looked vacantly in Sam’s face for a few seconds, and heaved a deep sigh. “What’s the matter, sir?” inquired Sam. “This action, Sam,” said Mr. Pickwick, “is expected to come on, on the fourteenth of next month.” “Remarkable coincidence that ’ere, sir,” replied Sam. “Why remarkable, Sam?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. “Walentine’s day, sir,” responded Sam; “reg’lar good day for a breach o’ promise trial.” Mr. Weller’s smile awakened no gleam of mirth in his master’s countenance. Mr. Pickwick turned abruptly round and led the way in silence. They had walked some distance: Mr. Pickwick trotting on before,

416 Charles Dickens plunged in profound meditation, and Sam following behind, with a countenance expressive of the most enviable and easy defiance of everything and everybody: when the latter, who was always especially anxious to impart to his master any exclusive information he possessed, quickened his pace until he was close at Mr. Pickwick’s heels; and, pointing up at a house they were passing, said: “Wery nice pork-shop that ’ere, sir.” “Yes, it seems so,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Celebrated sassage factory,” said Sam. “Is it?” said Mr. Pickwick. “Is it!” reiterated Sam, with some indignation; “I should rayther think it was. Why, sir, bless your innocent eyebrows, that’s where the mysterious disappearance of a ’spectable tradesman took place four year ago.” “You don’t mean to say he was burked, Sam?” said Mr. Pickwick, looking hastily round. “No, I don’t indeed, sir,” replied Mr. Weller, “I wish I did; far worse than that. He was the master o’ that ’ere shop, sir, and the inwentor o’ the patent-never-leavin’-off sassage steam ingine, as ud swaller up a pavin’ stone if you put it too near, and grind it into sassages as easy as if it was a tender young babby. Wery proud o’ that machine he was, as it was nat’ral he should be, and he’d stand down in the celler a lookin’ at it wen it was in full play, till he got quite melancholy with joy. A wery happy man he’d ha’ been, sir, in the procession o’ that ere ingine and two more lovely hinfants besides, if it hadn’t been for his wife, who was a most owdacious wixin. She was always a follerin’ him about and dinnin’ in his ears, ’till at last he couldn’t stand it no longer. ‘I’ll tell you what it is, my dear,’ he says one day; ‘if you persewere in this here sort of amusement,’ he says, ‘I’m blessed if I don’t go away to ’Merriker; and that’s all about it.’ ‘You’re a idle willin,’ says she, ‘and I wish the ’Merrikins joy of their bargain.’ Arter which she keeps on abusin’ of him for half an hour, and then runs into the little parlour behind the shop, sets to a screamin’, says he’ll be the death on her, and falls in a fit, which lasts for three good hours—one o’ them fits wich is all screamin’ and kickin’. Well, next mornin’ the husband was missin’. He hadn’t taken nothin’ from the till—hadn’t even put on his great-coat—so it was quite clear he warn’t gone to ’Merriker. Didn’t come back next day; didn’t come back next week; Missis had bills printed, sayin’ that, if he’d come back, he should be forgiven everythin’ (which was very liberal, seein’ that he hadn’t done nothin’ at all); the canals was dragged, and for two months artervards, wenever a body turned up, it was carried, as a reg’lar thing,

417TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS straight off to the sassage shop. Hows’ever, none on ‘em answered; so they gave out that he’d run avay, and she kep on the bis’ness. One Saturday night, a little thin old gen’l’m’n comes into the shop in a great passion and says, ‘Are you the missis o’ this here shop?’ ‘Yes, I am,’ says she. ‘Well, ma’am,’ says he, ‘then I’ve just looked in to say that me and my family ain’t a goin’ to be choked for nothin’; and more than that, ma’am,’ he says, ‘you’ll allow me to observe, that as you don’t use the primest parts of the meat in the manafacter o’ sassages, I think you’d find beef come nearly as cheap as buttons.’ ‘As buttons, sir!’ says she. ‘Buttons, ma’am,’ says the little old gentleman, unfolding a bit of paper, and shewin’ twenty or thirty halves o’ buttons. ‘Nice seasonin’ for sassages, is trousers’ buttons, ma’am.’ ‘They’re my husband’s buttons!’ says the widder beginnin’ to faint. ‘What!’ screams the little old gen’l’m’n, turnin’ wery pale. ‘I see it all,’ says the widder; ‘in a fit of temporary insanity he rashly converted his-self into sassages!’ And so he had, sir,” said Mr. Weller, looking steadily into Mr. Pickwick’s horror-stricken countenance, “or else he’d been draw’d into the ingine; but however that might ha’ been, the little old gen’l’m’n, who had been remarkably partial to sassages all his life, rushed out o’ the shop in a wild state, and was never heerd on artervards!” The relation of this affecting incident of private life brought master and man to Mr. Perker’s chambers. Lowten, holding the door half open, was in conversation with a rustily clad, miserable-looking man, in boots without toes and gloves without fingers. There were traces of privation and suffering—almost of despair—in his lank and care-worn countenance; he felt his poverty, for he shrunk to the dark side of the staircase as Mr. Pickwick approached. “It’s very unfortunate,” said the stranger, with a sigh. “Very,” said Lowten, scribbling his name on the door-post with his pen, and rubbing it out again with the feather. “Will you leave a message for him?” “When do you think he’ll be back?” inquired the stranger. “Quite uncertain,” replied Lowten, winking at Mr. Pickwick, as the stranger cast his eyes towards the ground. “You don’t think it would be of any use my waiting for him?” said the stranger, looking wistfully into the office. “Oh no, I’m sure it wouldn’t,” replied the clerk, moving a little more into the centre of the doorway. “He’s certain not to be back this week, and it’s a chance whether he will be next; for when Perker once gets out of town, he’s never in a hurry to come back again.”

418 Charles Dickens “Out of town!” said Mr. Pickwick; “dear me, how unfortunate!” “Don’t go away, Mr. Pickwick,” said Lowten, “I’ve got a letter for you.” The stranger, seeming to hesitate, once more looked towards the ground, and the clerk winked slyly at Mr. Pickwick, as if to intimate that some exquisite piece of humour was going forward, though what it was Mr. Pickwick could not for the life of him divine. “Step in, Mr. Pickwick,” said Lowten. “Well, will you leave a message, Mr. Watty, or will you call again?” “Ask him to be so kind as to leave out word what has been done in my business,” said the man; “for God’s sake don’t neglect it, Mr. Lowten.” “No, no; I won’t forget it,” replied the clerk. “Walk in, Mr. Pickwick. Good morning, Mr. Watty; it’s a fine day for walking, isn’t it?” Seeing that the stranger still lingered, he beckoned Sam Weller to follow his master in, and shut the door in his face. “There never was such a pestering bankrupt as that since the world began, I do believe!” said Lowten, throwing down his pen with the air of an injured man. “His affairs haven’t been in Chancery quite four years yet, and I’m d—d if he don’t come worrying here twice a week. Step this way, Mr. Pickwick. Perker is in, and he’ll see you, I know. Devilish cold,” he added, pettishly, “standing at that door, wasting one’s time with such seedy vagabonds!” Having very vehemently stirred a particularly large fire with a particularly small poker, the clerk led the way to his principal’s private room, and announced Mr. Pickwick. “Ah, my dear sir,” said little Mr. Perker, bustling up from his chair. “Well, my dear sir, and what’s the news about your matter, eh? Anything more about our friends in Freeman’s Court? They’ve not been sleeping, I know that. Ah, they’re very smart fellows; very smart, indeed.” As the little man concluded, he took an emphatic pinch of snuff, as a tribute to the smartness of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg. “They are great scoundrels,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Aye, aye,” said the little man; “that’s a matter of opinion, you know, and we won’t dispute about terms; because of course you can’t be expected to view these subjects with a professional eye. Well, we’ve done everything that’s necessary. I have retained Serjeant Snubbin.” “Is he a good man?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. “Good man!” replied Perker; “bless your heart and soul, my dear sir, Serjeant Snubbin is at the very top of his profession. Gets treble the business of any man in court—engaged in every case. You needn’t mention it abroad; but we say—we of the profession—that Serjeant Snubbin leads the court by the nose.”

419TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS The little man took another pinch of snuff as he made this communication, and nodded mysteriously to Mr. Pickwick. “They have subpoena’d my three friends,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Ah! of course they would,” replied Perker. “Important witnesses; saw you in a delicate situation.” “But she fainted of her own accord,” said Mr. Pickwick. “She threw herself into my arms.” “Very likely, my dear sir,” replied Perker; “very likely and very natural. Nothing more so, my dear sir, nothing. But who’s to prove it?” “They have subpoena’d my servant too,” said Mr. Pickwick quitting the other point; for there Mr. Perker’s question had somewhat staggered him. “Sam?” said Perker. Mr. Pickwick replied in the affirmative. “Of course, my dear sir; of course. I knew they would. I could have told you that, a month ago. You know, my dear sir, if you will take the management of your affairs into your own hands after intrusting them to your solicitor, you must also take the consequences.” Here Mr. Perker drew himself up with conscious dignity, and brushed some stray grains of snuff from his shirt frill. “And what do they want him to prove?” asked Mr. Pickwick, after two or three minutes’ silence. “That you sent him up to the plaintiff’s to make some offer of a compromise, I suppose,” replied Perker. “It don’t matter much, though; I don’t think many counsel could get a great deal out of him.” “I don’t think they could,” said Mr. Pickwick, smiling, despite his vexation, at the idea of Sam’s appearance as a witness. “What course do we pursue?” “We have only one to adopt, my dear sir,” replied Perker; “cross- examine the witnesses; trust to Snubbin’s eloquence; throw dust in the eyes of the judge; throw ourselves on the jury.” “And suppose the verdict is against me?” said Mr. Pickwick. Mr. Perker smiled, took a very long pinch of snuff, stirred the fire, shrugged his shoulders, and remained expressively silent. “You mean that in that case I must pay the damages?” said Mr. Pickwick, who had watched this telegraphic answer with considerable sternness. Perker gave the fire another very unnecessary poke and said “I am afraid so.” “Then I beg to announce to you my unalterable determination to pay no damages whatever,” said Mr. Pickwick, most emphatically. “None,

420 Charles Dickens Perker. Not a pound, not a penny, of my money, shall find its way into the pockets of Dodson and Fogg. That is my deliberate and irrevocable determination.” Mr. Pickwick gave a heavy blow on the table before him, in confirmation of the irrevocability of his intention. “Very well, my dear sir, very well,” said Perker. “You know best, of course.” “Of course,” replied Mr. Pickwick hastily. “Where does Serjeant Snubbin live?” “In Lincoln’s Inn Old Square,” replied Perker. “I should like to see him,” said Mr. Pickwick. “See Serjeant Snubbin, my dear sir!” rejoined Perker, in utter amazement. “Pooh, pooh, my dear sir, impossible. See Serjeant Snubbin! Bless you, my dear sir, such a thing was never heard of, without a consultation fee being previously paid, and a consultation fixed. It couldn’t be done, my dear sir; it couldn’t be done.” Mr. Pickwick, however, had made up his mind not only that it could be done, but that it should be done; and the consequence was, that within ten minutes after he had received the assurance that the thing was impossible, he was conducted by his solicitor into the outer office of the great Serjeant Snubbin himself. It was an uncarpeted room of tolerable dimensions, with a large writing-table drawn up near the fire; the baize top of which had long since lost all claim to its original hue of green, and had gradually grown grey with dust and age, except where all traces of its natural colour were obliterated by ink-stains. Upon the table were numerous little bundles of papers tied with red tape; and behind it, sat an elderly clerk, whose sleek appearance, and heavy gold watch-chain, presented imposing indications of the extensive and lucrative practice of Mr. Serjeant Snubbin. “Is the Serjeant in his room, Mr. Mallard?” inquired Perker, offering his box with all imaginable courtesy. “Yes, he is,” was the reply, “but he’s very busy. Look here; not an opinion given yet, on any one of these cases; and an expedition fee paid with all of ’em.” The clerk smiled as he said this, and inhaled the pinch of snuff with a zest which seemed to be compounded of a fondness for snuff and a relish for fees. “Something like practice that,” said Perker. “Yes,” said the barrister’s clerk, producing his own box, and offering it with the greatest cordiality; “and the best of it is, that as nobody alive except myself can read the Serjeant’s writing, they are obliged to wait

421TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS for the opinions, when he has given them, till I have copied ’em, ha— ha—ha!” “Which makes good for we know who, besides the Serjeant, and draws a little more out of the clients, eh?” said Perker; “ha, ha, ha!” At this the Serjeant’s clerk laughed again; not a noisy boisterous laugh, but a silent, internal chuckle, which Mr. Pickwick disliked to hear. When a man bleeds inwardly, it is a dangerous thing for himself; but when he laughs inwardly, it bodes no good to other people. “You haven’t made me out that little list of the fees that I’m in your debt, have you?” said Perker. “No, I have not,” replied the clerk. “I wish you would,” said Perker. “Let me have them, and I’ll send you a cheque. But I suppose you’re too busy pocketing the ready money, to think of the debtors, eh? ha, ha, ha!” This sally seemed to tickle the clerk amazingly, and he once more enjoyed a little quiet laugh to himself. “But, Mr. Mallard, my dear friend,” said Perker, suddenly recovering his gravity, and drawing the great man’s great man into a corner, by the lapel of his coat; “you must persuade the Serjeant to see me, and my client here.” “Come, come,” said the clerk, “that’s not bad either. See the Serjeant! come, that’s too absurd.” Notwithstanding the absurdity of the proposal, however, the clerk allowed himself to be gently drawn beyond the hearing of Mr. Pickwick; and after a short conversation conducted in whispers, walked softly down a little dark passage, and disappeared into the legal luminary’s sanctum: whence he shortly returned on tiptoe, and informed Mr. Perker and Mr. Pickwick that the Serjeant had been prevailed upon, in violation of all established rules and customs, to admit them at once. Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was a lantern-faced, sallow-complexioned man, of about five-and-forty, or—as the novels say—he might be fifty. He had that dull-looking boiled eye which is often to be seen in the heads of people who have applied themselves during many years to a weary and laborious course of study; and which would have been sufficient, without the additional eye-glass which dangled from a broad black riband round his neck, to warn a stranger that he was very near-sighted. His hair was thin and weak, which was partly attributable to his having never devoted much time to its arrangement, and partly to his having worn for five- and-twenty years the forensic wig which hung on a block beside him. The marks of hair-powder on his coat-collar, and the ill-washed and worse- tied white neckerchief round his throat, showed that he had not found

422 Charles Dickens leisure since he left the court to make an alteration in his dress: while the slovenly style of the remainder of his costume warranted the inference that his personal appearance would not have been very much improved if he had. Books of practice, heaps of papers, and opened letters were scattered over the table, without any attempt at order or arrangement; the furniture of the room was old and rickety; the doors of the bookcase were rotting on their hinges; the dust flew out from the carpet in little clouds at every step; the blinds were yellow with age and dirt; the state of everything in the room showed, with a clearness not to be mistaken, that Mr. Serjeant Snubbin was far too much occupied with his professional pursuits to take any great heed or regard of his personal comforts. The Serjeant was writing when his clients entered; he bowed abstractedly when Mr. Pickwick was introduced by his solicitor; and then, motioning them to a seat, put his pen carefully in the inkstand, nursed his left leg, and waited to be spoken to. “Mr. Pickwick is the defendant in Bardell and Pickwick, Serjeant Snubbin,” said Perker. “I am retained in that, am I?” said the Serjeant. “You are, sir,” replied Perker. The Serjeant nodded his head, and waited for something else. “Mr. Pickwick was anxious to call upon you, Serjeant Snubbin,” said Perker, “to state to you, before you entered upon the case, that he denies there being any ground or pretence whatever for the action against him; and that unless he came into court with clean hands, and without the most conscientious conviction that he was right in resisting the plaintiffs demand, he would not be there at all. I believe I state your views correctly; do I not, my dear sir?” said the little man, turning to Mr. Pickwick. “Quite so,” replied that gentleman. Mr. Serjeant Snubbin unfolded his glasses, raised them to his eyes; and, after looking at Mr. Pickwick for a few seconds with great curiosity, turned to Mr. Perker, and said, smiling slightly as he spoke: “Has Mr. Pickwick a strong case?” The attorney shrugged his shoulders. “Do you purpose calling witnesses?” “No.” The smile on the Serjeant’s countenance became more defined; he rocked his leg with increased violence; and, throwing himself back in his easy chair, coughed dubiously. These tokens of the Serjeant’s presentiments on the subject, slight as

423TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS they were, were not lost on Mr. Pickwick. He settled the spectacles, through which he had attentively regarded such demonstrations of the barrister’s feelings as he had permitted himself to exhibit, more firmly on his nose; and said with great energy, and in utter disregard of all Mr. Perker’s admonitory winkings and frownings: “My wishing to wait upon you, for such a purpose as this, sir, appears, I have no doubt, to a gentleman who sees so much of these matters as you must necessarily do, a very extraordinary circumstance.” The Serjeant tried to look gravely at the fire, but the smile came back again. “Gentlemen of your profession, sir,” continued Mr. Pickwick, “see the worst side of human nature. All its disputes, all its ill-will and bad blood, rise up before you. You know from your experience of juries (I mean no disparagement to you, or them) how much depends upon effect: and you are apt to attribute to others a desire to use, for purposes of deception and self-interest, the very instruments which you, in pure honesty and honour of purpose, and with a laudable desire to do your utmost for your client, know the temper and worth of so well, from constantly employing them yourselves. I really believe that to this circumstance may be attributed the vulgar but very general notion of your being, as a body, suspicious, distrustful, and over-cautious. Conscious as I am, sir, of the disadvantage of making such a declaration to you, under such circumstances, I have come here because I wish you distinctly to understand, as my friend Mr. Perker has said, that I am innocent of the falsehood laid to my charge; and although I am very well aware of the inestimable value of your assistance, sir, I must beg to add, that unless you sincerely believe this, I would rather be deprived of the aid of your talents than have the advantage of them.” Long before the close of this address, which we are bound to say was of a very prosy character for Mr. Pickwick, the Serjeant had relapsed into a state of abstraction. After some minutes, however, during which he had reassumed his pen, he appeared to be again aware of the presence of his clients; raising his head from the paper, he said, rather snappishly, “Who is with me in this case?” “Mr. Phunky, Serjeant Snubbin,” replied the attorney. “Phunky, Phunky,” said the Serjeant, “I never heard the name before. He must be a very young man.” “Yes, he is a very young man,” replied the attorney. “He was only called the other day. Let me see—he has not been at the Bar eight years yet.” “Ah, I thought not,” said the Serjeant, in that sort of pitying tone in

424 Charles Dickens which ordinary folks would speak of a very helpless little child. “Mr. Mallard, send round to Mr.—Mr.—” “Phunky’s—Holborn Court, Gray’s Inn,” interposed Perker. (Holborn Court, by the bye, is South Square now.) “Mr. Phunky, and say I should be glad if he’d step here, a moment.” Mr. Mallard departed to execute his commission; and Serjeant Snubbin relapsed into abstraction until Mr. Phunky himself was introduced. Although an infant barrister, he was a full-grown man. He had a very nervous manner, and a painful hesitation in his speech; it did not appear to be a natural defect, but seemed rather the result of timidity, arising from the consciousness of being “kept down” by want of means, or interest, or connection, or impudence, as the case might be. He was overawed by the Serjeant, and profoundly courteous to the attorney. “I have not had the pleasure of seeing you before, Mr. Phunky,” said Serjeant Snubbin, with haughty condescension. Mr. Phunky bowed. He had had the pleasure of seeing the Serjeant, and of envying him too, with all a poor man’s envy, for eight years and a quarter. “You are with me in this case, I understand?” said the Serjeant. If Mr. Phunky had been a rich man, he would have instantly sent for his clerk to remind him: if he had been a wise one, he would have applied his forefinger to his forehead, and endeavoured to recollect, whether, in the multiplicity of his engagements he had undertaken this one, or not; but as he was neither rich nor wise (in this sense at all events) he turned red, and bowed. “Have you read the papers, Mr. Phunky?” inquired the Serjeant. Here again, Mr. Phunky should have professed to have forgotten all about the merits of the case; but as he had read such papers as had been laid before him in the course of the action, and had thought of nothing else, waking or sleeping, throughout the two months during which he had been retained as Mr. Serjeant Snubbin’s junior, he turned a deeper red, and bowed again. “This is Mr. Pickwick,” said the Serjeant, waving his pen in the direction in which that gentleman was standing. Mr. Phunky bowed to Mr. Pickwick with a reverence which a first client must ever awaken; and again inclined his head towards his leader. “Perhaps you will take Mr. Pickwick away,” said the Serjeant, “and— and—and—hear anything Mr. Pickwick may wish to communicate. We shall have a consultation, of course.” With this hint that he had been in- terrupted quite long enough, Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who had been grad-

425TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS ually growing more and more abstracted, applied his glass to his eyes for an instant, bowed slightly round, and was once more deeply immersed in the case before him: which arose out of an interminable lawsuit, originating in the act of an individual, deceased a century or so ago, who had stopped up a pathway leading from some place which nobody ever came from, to some other place which nobody ever went to. Mr. Phunky would not hear of passing through any door until Mr. Pickwick and his solicitor had passed through before him, so it was some time before they got into the Square; and when they did reach it, they walked up and down, and held a long conference, the result of which was that it was a very difficult matter to say how the verdict would go; that nobody could presume to calculate on the issue of an action; that it was very lucky they had prevented the other party from getting Serjeant Snubbin; and other topics of doubt and consolation, common in such a position of affairs. Mr. Weller was then roused by his master from a sweet sleep of an hour’s duration; and, bidding adieu to Lowten, they returned to the City. [Sam’s father, Mr. Weller, proffers some advice.] . . . Mr. Weller the elder proceeded to open that [business] on which he had summoned his son. “The first matter relates to your governor, Sammy,” said Mr. Weller. “He’s a goin’ to be tried to-morrow, ain’t he?” “The trial’s a comin’ on,” replied Sam. “Vell,” said Mr. Weller, “Now I s’pose he’ll want to call some witnesses to speak to his character, or p’raps to prove a alleybi. I’ve been a turnin’ the bis’ness over in my mind, and he may make his-self easy, Sammy. I’ve got some friends as’ll do either for him, but my adwice ‘ud be this here—never mind the character, and stick to the alleybi. Nothing like a alleybi, Sammy, nothing.” Mr. Weller looked very profound as he delivered this legal opinion; and burying his nose in his tumbler, winked over the top thereof at his astonished son. “Why, what do you mean?” said Sam. “You don’t think he’s a goin’ to be tried at the Old Bailey, do you?” “That ain’t no part of the present con-sideration, Sammy,” replied Mr. Weller. “Verever he’s a goin’ to be tried, my boy, a alleybi’s the thing to get him off. Ve got Tom Vildspark off that ’ere manslaughter, with a alleybi, ven all the big vigs to a man said as nothing couldn’t save him. And my ’pinion is, Sammy, that if your governor don’t prove a alleybi, he’ll be what the Italians call reg’larly flummoxed, and that’s all about it.”

426 Charles Dickens As the elder Mr. Weller entertained a firm and unalterable conviction that the Old Bailey was the supreme court of judicature in this country, and that its rules and forms of proceeding regulated and controlled the practice of all other courts of justice whatsoever, he totally disregarded the assurances and arguments of his son tending to show that the alibi was inadmissible; and vehemently protested that Mr. Pickwick was being “wictimised.” [The memorable trial of Bardell against Pickwick proceeds.] “I wonder what the foreman of the jury, whoever he’ll be, has got for breakfast,” said Mr. Snodgrass, by way of keeping up a conversation on the eventful morning of the fourteenth of February. “Ah!” said Perker, “I hope he’s got a good one.” “Why so?” inquired Mr. Pickwick. “Highly important; very important, my dear sir,” replied Perker. “A good, contented, well-breakfasted juryman is a capital thing to get hold of. Discontented or hungry jurymen, my dear sir, always find for the plaintiff.” “Bless my heart,” said Mr. Pickwick, looking very blank; “what do they do that for?” “Why, I don’t know,” replied the little man, coolly; “saves time, I suppose. If it’s near dinner-time, the foreman takes out his watch when the jury has retired, and says, ‘Dear me, gentlemen, ten minutes to five, I declare! I dine at five, gentlemen.’ ‘So do I,’ says everybody else, except two men who ought to have dined at three, and seem more than half disposed to stand out in consequence. The foreman smiles, and puts up his watch: ‘Well, gentlemen, what do we say, plaintiff or defendant, gentlemen? I rather think, so far as I am concerned, gentlemen—I say, I rather think—but don’t let that influence you—I rather think the plaintiff’s the man.’ Upon this, two or three other men are sure to say that they think so too—as of course they do; and then they get on very unanimously and comfortably. Ten minutes past nine!” said the little man, looking at his watch. “Time we were off, my dear sir; breach of promise trial—court is generally full in such cases. You had better ring for a coach, my dear sir, or we shall be rather late.” Mr. Pickwick immediately rang the bell; and a coach having been procured, the four Pickwickians and Mr. Perker ensconced themselves therein, and drove to Guildhall; Sam Weller, Mr. Lowten, and the blue bag, following in a cab. “Lowten,” said Perker, when they reached the outer hall of the court,

427TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS “put Mr. Pickwick’s friends in the students’ box; Mr. Pickwick himself had better sit by me. This way, my dear sir, this way.” Taking Mr. Pickwick by the coat-sleeve, the little man led him to the low seat just beneath the desks of the King’s Counsel, which is constructed for the convenience of attorneys, who from that spot can whisper into the ear of the leading counsel in the case any instructions that may be necessary during the progress of the trial. The occupants of this seat are invisible to the great body of spectators, inasmuch as they sit on a much lower level than either the barristers or the audience, whose seats are raised above the floor. Of course they have their backs to both, and their faces towards the judge. “That’s the witness-box, I suppose?” said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a kind of pulpit, with a brass rail, on his left hand. “That’s the witness-box, my dear sir,” replied Perker, disinterring a quantity of papers from the blue bag, which Lowten had just deposited at his feet. “And that,” said Mr. Pickwick, pointing to a couple of enclosed seats on his right, “that’s where the jurymen sit, is it not?” “The identical place, my dear sir,” replied Perker, tapping the lid of his snuff-box. Mr. Pickwick stood up in a state of great agitation, and took a glance at the court. There were already a pretty large sprinkling of spectators in the gallery, and a numerous muster of gentlemen in wigs, in the barristers’ seats: who presented, as a body, all that pleasing and extensive variety of nose and whisker for which the Bar of England is so justly celebrated. Such of the gentlemen as had a brief to carry, carried it in as conspicuous a manner as possible, and occasionally scratched their noses therewith, to impress the fact more strongly on the observation of the spectators. Other gentlemen, who had no briefs to show, carried under their arms goodly octavos, with a red label behind, and that underdone-pie-crust- coloured cover, which is technically known as “law calf.” Others, who had neither briefs nor books, thrust their hands into their pockets, and looked as wise as they conveniently could; others, again, moved here and there with great restlessness and earnestness of manner, content to awaken thereby the admiration and astonishment of the uninitiated strangers. The whole, to the great wonderment of Mr. Pickwick, were divided into little groups, who were chatting and discussing the news of the day in the most unfeeling manner possible—just as if no trial at all were coming on. A bow from Mr. Phunky, as he entered, and took his seat behind the

428 Charles Dickens row appropriated to the King’s Counsel, attracted Mr. Pickwick’s attention; and he had scarcely returned it, when Mr. Serjeant Snubbin appeared, followed by Mr. Mallard, who half hid the Serjeant behind a large crimson bag, which he placed on his table, and, after shaking hands with Perker, withdrew. Then there entered two or three more Serjeants; and among them, one with a fat body and a red face, who nodded in a friendly manner to Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, and said it was a fine morning. “Who’s that red-faced man, who said it was a fine morning, and nodded to our counsel?” whispered Mr. Pickwick. “Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz,” replied Perker. “He’s opposed to us; he leads on the other side. That gentleman behind him is Mr. Skimpin, his junior.” Mr. Pickwick was on the point of inquiring, with great abhorrence of the man’s cold-blooded villainy, how Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, who was counsel for the opposite party, dared to presume to tell Mr. Serjeant Snubbin, who was counsel for him, that it was a fine morning, when he was interrupted by a general rising of the barristers, and a loud cry of “Silence!” from the officers of the court. Looking round, he found that this was caused by the entrance of the judge. Mr. Justice Stareleigh (who sat in the absence of the Chief Justice, occasioned by indisposition) was a most particularly short man, and so fat that he seemed all face and waistcoat. He rolled in, upon two little turned legs, and having bobbed gravely to the bar, who bobbed gravely to him, put his little legs underneath his table, and his little three- cornered hat upon it; and when Mr. Justice Stareleigh had done this, all you could see of him was two queer little eyes, one broad pink face, and somewhere about half of a big and very comical-looking wig. The judge had no sooner taken his seat than the officer on the floor of the court called out “Silence!” in a commanding tone, upon which another officer in the gallery cried “Silence!” in an angry manner, where- upon three or four more ushers shouted “Silence!” in a voice of indignant remonstrance. This being done, a gentleman in black, who sat below the judge, proceeded to call over the names of the jury; and after a great deal of bawling, it was discovered that only ten special jurymen were present. Upon this, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz prayed a tales; the gentleman in black then proceeded to press into the special jury two of the common jurymen; and a greengrocer and a chemist were caught directly. “Answer to your names, gentlemen, that you may be sworn,” said the gentleman in black. “Richard Upwitch.” “Here,” said the greengrocer. “Thomas Groffin.”

429TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS “Here,” said the chemist. “Take the book, gentlemen. You shall well and truly try—” “I beg this court’s pardon,” said the chemist, who was a tall, thin, yellow-visaged man, “but I hope this court will excuse my attendance.” “On what grounds, sir?” said Mr. Justice Stareleigh. “I have no assistant, my Lord,” said the chemist. “I can’t help that, sir,” replied Mr. Justice Stareleigh. “You should hire one.” “I can’t afford it, my Lord,” rejoined the chemist. “Then you ought to be able to afford it, sir,” said the judge, reddening; for Justice Stareleigh’s temper bordered on the irritable, and brooked not contradiction. “I know I ought to do, if I got on as well as I deserved, but I don’t, my Lord,” answered the chemist. “Swear the gentleman,” said the judge, peremptorily. The officer had got no further than the “You shall well and truly try,” when he was again interrupted by the chemist. “I am to be sworn, my Lord, am I?” said the chemist. “Certainly, sir,” replied the testy little judge. “Very well, my Lord,” replied the chemist, in a resigned manner. “Then there’ll be murder before this trial’s over; that’s all. Swear me, if you please, sir”; and sworn the chemist was, before the judge could find words to utter. “I merely wanted to observe, my Lord,” said the chemist, taking his seat with great deliberation, “that I’ve left nobody but an errand-boy in my shop. He is a very nice boy, my Lord, but he is not acquainted with drugs; and I know that the prevailing impression on his mind is, that Epsom salts means oxalic acid; and syrup of senna, laudanum. That’s all, my Lord.” With this, the tall chemist composed himself into a comfortable attitude, and, assuming a pleasant expression of countenance, appeared to have prepared himself for the worst. Mr. Pickwick was regarding the chemist with feelings of the deepest horror, when a slight sensation was perceptible in the body of the court; and immediately afterwards Mrs. Bardell, supported by Mrs. Cluppins, was led in, and placed in a drooping state, at the other end of the seat on which Mr. Pickwick sat. An extra-sized umbrella was then handed in by Mr. Dodson, and a pair of pattens by Mr. Fogg, each of whom had prepared a most sympathizing and melancholy face for the occasion. Mrs. Sanders then appeared, leading in Master Bardell. At sight of her child, Mrs. Bardell started; suddenly recollecting herself, she kissed him

430 Charles Dickens in a frantic manner; then relapsing into a state of hysterical imbecility, the good lady requested to be informed where she was. In reply to this, Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders turned their heads away and wept, while Messrs. Dodson and Fogg intreated the plaintiff to compose herself. Serjeant Buzfuz rubbed his eyes very hard with a large white handkerchief, and gave an appealing look towards the jury, while the judge was visibly affected, and several of the beholders tried to cough down their emotions. “Very good notion, that, indeed,” whispered Perker to Mr. Pickwick. “Capital fellows those Dodson and Fogg; excellent ideas of effect, my dear sir, excellent.” As Perker spoke, Mrs. Bardell began to recover by slow degrees, while Mrs. Cluppins, after a careful survey of Master Bardell’s buttons and the button-holes to which they severally belonged, placed him on the floor of the court in front of his mother—a commanding position in which he could not fail to awaken the full commiseration and sympathy of both judge and jury. This was not done without considerable opposition, and many tears, on the part of the young gentleman himself, who had certain inward misgivings that the placing him within the full glare of the judge’s eye was only a formal prelude to his being immediately ordered away for instant execution, or for transportation beyond the seas, during the whole term of his natural life, at the very least. “Bardell and Pickwick,” cried the gentleman in black, calling on the case, which stood first on the list. “I am for the plaintiff, my Lord,” said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz. “Who is with you, Brother Buzfuz?” said the judge. Mr. Skimpin bowed, to intimate that he was. “I appear for the defendant, my Lord,” said Mr. Serjeant Snubbin. “Anybody with you, Brother Snubbin?” inquired the court. “Mr. Phunky, my Lord,” replied Serjeant Snubbin. “Serjeant Buzfuz and Mr. Skimpin for the plaintiff,” said the judge, writing down the names in his note-book, and reading as he wrote; “for the defendant, Serjeant Snubbin and Mr. Monkey.” “Beg your Lordship’s pardon, Phunky.” “Oh, very good,” said the judge; “I never had the pleasure of hearing the gentleman’s name before.” Here Mr. Phunky bowed and smiled, and the judge bowed and smiled too, and then Mr. Phunky, blushing into the very whites of his eyes, tried to look as if he didn’t know that everybody was gazing at him: a thing which no man ever succeeded in doing yet, or in all reasonable probability, ever will.

431TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS “Go on,” said the judge. The ushers again called silence, and Mr. Skimpin proceeded to open the case; and the case appeared to have very little inside it when he had opened it, for he kept such particulars as he knew completely to himself, and sat down, after a lapse of three minutes, leaving the jury in precisely the same advanced stage of wisdom as they were in before. Serjeant Buzfuz then rose with all the majesty and dignity which the grave nature of the proceedings demanded, and having whispered to Dodson, and conferred briefly with Fogg, pulled his gown over his shoulders, settled his wig, and addressed the jury. Serjeant Buzfuz began by saying, that never, in the whole course of his professional experience—never, from the very first moment of his applying himself to the study and practice of the law—had he approached a case with feelings of such deep emotion, or with such a heavy sense of the responsibility imposed upon him—a responsibility, he would say, which he could never have supported were he not buoyed up and sustained by a conviction so strong that it amounted to positive certainty that the cause of truth and justice, or, in other words, the cause of his much-injured and most oppressed client, must prevail with the high-minded and intelligent dozen of men whom he now saw in that box before him. Counsel usually begin in this way, because it puts the jury on the very best terms with themselves, and makes them think what sharp fellows they must be. A visible effect was produced immediately, several jurymen beginning to take voluminous notes with the utmost eagerness. “You have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen,” continued Serjeant Buzfuz, well knowing that, from the learned friend alluded to, the gentlemen of the jury had heard just nothing at all—”you have heard from my learned friend, gentlemen, that this is an action for a breach of promise of marriage, in which the damages are laid at £1,500. But you have not heard from my learned friend, inasmuch as it did not come within my learned friend’s province to tell you, what are the facts and circumstances of the case. Those facts and circumstances, gentlemen, you shall hear detailed by me, and proved by the unimpeachable female whom I will place in that box before you.” Here Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, with a tremendous emphasis on the word “box,” smote his table with a mighty sound, and glanced at Dodson and Fogg, who nodded admiration of the serjeant, and indignant defiance of the defendant. “The plaintiff, gentlemen,” continued Serjeant Buzfuz, in a soft and melancholy voice, “the plaintiff is a widow; yes, gentlemen, a widow. The

432 Charles Dickens late Mr. Bardell, after enjoying, for many years, the esteem and confidence of his sovereign, as one of the guardians of his royal revenues, glided almost imperceptibly from the world to seek elsewhere for that repose and peace which a custom-house can never afford.” At this pathetic description of the decease of Mr. Bardell, who had been knocked on the head with a quart-pot in a public-house cellar, the learned serjeant’s voice faltered, and he proceeded with emotion: “Some time before his death, he had stamped his likeness upon a little boy. With this little boy, the only pledge of her departed exciseman, Mrs. Bardell shrunk from the world, and courted the retirement and tranquillity of Goswell Street; and here she placed in her front parlour window a written placard, bearing this inscription—‘Apartments furnished for a single gentleman. Inquire within.’” Here Serjeant Buzfuz paused, while several gentlemen of the jury took a note of the document. “There is no date to that, is there, sir?” inquired a juror. “There is no date, gentlemen,” replied Serjeant Buzfuz; “but I am instructed to say that it was put in the plaintiff’s parlour window just this time three years. I intreat the attention of the jury to the wording of this document, ‘Apartments furnished for a single gentleman’! Mrs. Bardell’s opinions of the opposite sex, gentlemen, were derived from a long contemplation of the inestimable qualities of her lost husband. She had no fear, she had no distrust, she had no suspicion, all was confidence and reliance. ‘Mr. Bardell,’ said the widow, ‘Mr. Bardell was a man of honour, Mr. Bardell was a man of his word, Mr. Bardell was no deceiver, Mr. Bardell was once a single gentleman himself; to single gentlemen I look for protection, for assistance, for comfort, and for consolation; in single gentlemen I shall perpetually see something to remind me of what Mr. Bardell was when he first won my young and untried affections; to a single gentleman, then, shall my lodgings be let.’ Actuated by this beautiful and touching impulse (among the best impulses of our imperfect nature, gentlemen), the lonely and desolate widow dried her tears, furnished her first floor, caught the innocent boy to her maternal bosom, and put the bill up in her parlour window. Did it remain there long? No. The serpent was on the watch, the train was laid, the mine was preparing, the sapper and miner was at work. Before the bill had been in the parlour window three days—three days—gentlemen—a Being, erect upon two legs, and bearing all the outward semblance of a man, and not of a monster, knocked at the door of Mrs. Bardell’s house. He inquired within; he took the lodgings; and on the very next day he entered into possession of them. This man was Pickwick—Pickwick, the defendant.”

433TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS Serjeant Buzfuz, who had proceeded with such volubility that his face was perfectly crimson, here paused for breath. The silence awoke Mr. Justice Stareleigh, who immediately wrote down something with a pen without any ink in it, and looked unusually profound, to impress the jury with the belief that he always thought most deeply with his eyes shut. Serjeant Buzfuz proceeded. “Of this man Pickwick I will say little; the subject presents but few attractions; and I, gentlemen, am not the man, nor are you, gentlemen, the men, to delight in the contemplation of revolting heartlessness, and of systematic villainy.” Here Mr. Pickwick, who had been writhing in silence for some time, gave a violent start, as if some vague idea of assaulting Serjeant Buzfuz, in the august presence of justice and law, suggested itself to his mind. An admonitory gesture from Perker restrained him, and he listened to the learned gentleman’s continuation with a look of indignation, which contrasted forcibly with the admiring faces of Mrs. Cluppins and Mrs. Sanders. “I say systematic villainy, gentlemen,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking through Mr. Pickwick, and talking at him; “and when I say systematic villainy, let me tell the defendant Pickwick, if he be in court, as I am informed he is, that it would have been more decent in him, more becoming, in better judgment, and in better taste, if he had stopped away. Let me tell him, gentlemen, that any gestures of dissent or disapprobation in which he may indulge in this court will not go down with you; that you will know how to value and how to appreciate them; and let me tell him further, as my lord will tell you, gentlemen, that a counsel, in the discharge of his duty to his client, is neither to be intimidated, nor bullied, nor put down; and that any attempt to do either the one or the other, or the first, or the last, will recoil on the head of the attempter, be he plaintiff or be he defendant, be his name Pickwick, or Noakes, or Stoakes, or Stiles, or Brown, or Thompson.” This little divergence from the subject in hand had, of course, the intended effect of turning all eyes to Mr. Pickwick. Serjeant Buzfuz, having partially recovered from the state of moral elevation into which he had lashed himself, resumed: “I shall show you, gentlemen, that for two years Pickwick continued to reside constantly, and without interruption or intermission, at Mrs. Bardell’s house. I shall show you that Mrs. Bardell during the whole of that time waited on him, attended to his comforts, cooked his meals, looked out his linen for the washerwoman when it went abroad, darned, aired,

434 Charles Dickens and prepared it for wear, when it came home, and, in short, enjoyed his fullest trust and confidence. I shall show you that, on many occasions, he gave halfpence, and on some occasions even sixpences, to her little boy; and I shall prove to you, by a witness whose testimony it will be impossible for my learned friend to weaken or controvert, that on one occasion he patted the boy on the head, and, after inquiring whether he had won any ‘alley tors’ or ‘commoneys’ lately (both of which I understand to be a particular species of marbles much prized by the youth of this town), made use of this remarkable expression: ‘How should you like to have another father?’ I shall prove to you, gentlemen, that about a year ago, Pickwick suddenly began to absent himself from home, during long intervals, as if with the intention of gradually breaking off from my client; but I shall show you also, that his resolution was not at that time sufficiently strong, or that his better feelings conquered, if better feelings he has, or that the charms and accomplishments of my client prevailed against his unmanly intentions; by proving to you, that on one occasion, when he returned from the country, he distinctly and in terms, offered her marriage: previously however, taking special care that there should be no witness to their solemn contract; and I am in a situation to prove to you, on the testimony of three of his own friends— most unwilling witnesses, gentlemen—most unwilling witnesses—that on that morning he was discovered by them holding the plaintiff in his arms, and soothing her agitation by his caresses and endearments.” A visible impression was produced upon the auditors by this part of the learned serjeant’s address. Drawing forth two very small scraps of paper, he proceeded: “And now, gentlemen, but one word more. Two letters have passed between these parties, letters which are admitted to be in the handwriting of the defendant, and which speak volumes indeed. These letters, too, bespeak the character of the man. They are not open, fervent, eloquent epistles, breathing nothing but the language of affectionate attachment. They are covert, sly, underhanded communications, but, fortunately, far more conclusive than if couched in the most glowing language and the most poetic imagery—letters that must be viewed with a cautious and suspicious eye—letters that were evidently intended at the time, by Pickwick, to mislead and delude any third parties into whose hands they might fall. Let me read the first: ‘Garraway’s, twelve o’clock. Dear Mrs. B.—Chops and Tomato sauce. Yours, PICKWICK.’ Gentlemen, what does this mean? Chops and Tomato sauce! Yours, Pickwick! Chops! Gracious heavens! and Tomato sauce! Gentlemen, is the happiness of a sensi-

435TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS tive and confiding female to be trifled away, by such shallow artifices as these? The next has no date whatever, which in itself is suspicious. ‘Dear Mrs. B., I shall not be at home till to-morrow. Slow coach.’ And then follows this very remarkable expression. ‘Don’t trouble yourself about the warming-pan.’ The warming-pan! Why, gentlemen, who does trouble himself about a warming-pan? When was the peace of mind of man or woman broken or disturbed by a warming-pan, which is in itself a harmless, a useful, and I will add, gentlemen, a comforting article of domestic furniture? Why is Mrs. Bardell so earnestly entreated not to agitate herself about this warming-pan, unless (as is no doubt the case) it is a mere cover for hidden fire—a mere substitute for some endearing word or promise, agreeably to a preconcerted system of correspondence, artfully contrived by Pickwick with a view to his contemplated desertion, and which I am not in a condition to explain? And what does this allusion to the slow coach mean? For aught I know, it may be a reference to Pickwick himself, who has most unquestionably been a criminally slow coach during the whole of this transaction, but whose speed will now be very unexpectedly accelerated, and whose wheels, gentlemen, as he will find to his cost, will very soon be greased by you!” Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz paused in this place, to see whether the jury smiled at his joke: but as nobody took it but the greengrocer, whose sensitiveness on the subject was very probably occasioned by his having subjected a chaise-cart to the process in question on that identical morning, the learned serjeant considered it advisable to undergo a slight relapse into the dismals before he concluded. “But enough of this, gentlemen,” said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz, “it is difficult to smile with an aching heart; it is ill jesting when our deepest sympathies are awakened. My client’s hopes and prospects are ruined, and it is no figure of speech to say that her occupation is gone indeed. The bill is down—but there is no tenant. Eligible single gentlemen pass and repass—but there is no invitation for them to inquire within or without. All is gloom and silence in the house; even the voice of the child is hushed; his infant sports are disregarded when his mother weeps; his ‘alley tors’ and his ‘commoneys’ are alike neglected; he forgets the long familiar cry of ‘knuckle down,’ and at tip-cheese, or odd and even, his hand is out. But Pickwick, gentlemen, Pickwick, the ruthless destroyer of this domestic oasis in the desert of Goswell Street—Pickwick, who has choked up the well, and thrown ashes on the sward—Pickwick, who comes before you to-day with his heartless Tomato sauce and warming- pans—Pickwick still rears his head with unblushing effrontery, and gazes

436 Charles Dickens without a sigh on the ruin he has made. Damages, gentlemen—heavy damages—is the only punishment with which you can visit him; the only recompense you can award to my client. And for those damages she now appeals to an enlightened, a high-minded, a right-feeling, a conscientious, a dispassionate, a sympathizing, a contemplative jury of her civilized countrymen.” With this beautiful peroration, Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz sat down, and Mr. Justice Stareleigh woke up. “Call Elizabeth Cluppins,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, rising a minute afterwards, with renewed vigour. The nearest usher called for Elizabeth Tuppins; another one, at a little distance off, demanded Elizabeth Jupkins; and a third rushed in a breathless state into King Street, and screamed for Elizabeth Muffins till he was hoarse. Meanwhile Mrs. Cluppins, with the combined assistance of Mrs. Bardell, Mrs. Sanders, Mr. Dodson, and Mr. Fogg, was hoisted into the witness- box; and when she was safely perched on the top step, Mrs. Bardell stood on the bottom one, with the pocket-handkerchief and pattens in one hand, and a glass bottle that might hold about a quarter of a pint of smelling salts in the other, ready for any emergency. Mrs. Sanders, whose eyes were intently fixed on the judge’s face, planted herself close by, with the large umbrella: keeping her right thumb pressed on the spring with an earnest countenance, as if she were fully prepared to put it up at a moment’s notice. “Mrs. Cluppins,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, “pray compose yourself, ma’am.” Of course, directly Mrs. Cluppins was desired to compose herself she sobbed with increased vehemence, and gave divers alarming manifestations of an approaching fainting fit, or, as she afterwards said, of her feelings being too many for her. “Do you recollect, Mrs. Cluppins?” said Serjeant Buzfuz, after a few unimportant questions, “do you recollect being in Mrs. Bardell’s back one-pair of stairs, on one particular morning in July last, when she was dusting Pickwick’s apartment?” “Yes, my Lord and Jury, I do,” replied Mrs. Cluppins. “Mr. Pickwick’s sitting-room was the first-floor front, I believe?” “Yes, it were, sir,” replied Mrs. Cluppins. “What were you doing in the back room, ma’am?” inquired the little judge. “My Lord and Jury,” said Mrs. Cluppins, with interesting agitation, “I will not deceive you.”

437TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS “You had better not, ma’am,” said the little judge. “I was there,” resumed Mrs. Cluppins, “unbeknown to Mrs. Bardell; I had been out with a little basket, gentlemen, to buy three pound of red kidney purtaties, which was three pound tuppence ha’penny, when I see Mrs. Bardell’s street door on the jar.” “On the what?” exclaimed the little judge. “Partly open, my Lord,” said Serjeant Snubbin. “She said on the jar,” said the little judge, with a cunning look. “It’s all the same, my Lord,” said Serjeant Snubbin. The little judge looked doubtful, and said he’d make a note of it. Mrs. Cluppins then resumed: “I walked in, gentlemen, just to say good mornin’, and went, in a permiscuous manner, upstairs, and into the back room. Gentlemen, there was the sound of voices in the front room, and—” “And you listened, I believe, Mrs. Cluppins?” said Serjeant Buzfuz. “Beggin’ your pardon, sir,” replied Mrs. Cluppins, in a majestic manner, “I would scorn the haction. The voices was very loud, sir, and forced themselves upon my ear.” “Well, Mrs. Cluppins, you were not listening, but you heard the voices. Was one of those voices, Pickwick’s?” “Yes, it were, sir.” And Mrs. Cluppins, after distinctly stating that Mr. Pickwick addressed himself to Mrs. Bardell, repeated, by slow degrees, and by dint of many questions, the conversation with which our readers are already acquainted. The jury looked suspicious, and Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz smiled and sat down. They looked positively awful when Serjeant Snubbin intimated that he should not cross-examine the witness, for Mr. Pickwick wished it to be distinctly stated that it was due to her to say that her account was in substance correct. Mrs. Cluppins, having once broken the ice, thought it a favourable opportunity for entering into a short dissertation on her own domestic affairs; so, she straightway proceeded to inform the court that she was the mother of eight children at that present speaking, and that she entertained confident expectations of presenting Mr. Cluppins with a ninth, somewhere about that day six months. At this interesting point, the little judge interposed most irascibly; and the effect of the interposition was that both the worthy lady and Mrs. Sanders were politely taken out of court, under the escort of Mr. Jackson, without further parley.

438 Charles Dickens “Nathaniel Winkle!” said Mr. Skimpin. “Here!” replied a feeble voice. Mr. Winkle entered the witness-box, and having been duly sworn, bowed to the judge with considerable deference. “Don’t look at me, sir,” said the judge, sharply, in acknowledgment of the salute; “look at the jury.” Mr. Winkle obeyed the mandate, and looked at the place where he thought it most probable the jury might be; for seeing anything in his then state of intellectual complication was wholly out of the question. Mr. Winkle was then examined by Mr. Skimpin, who, being a promising young man of two or three and forty, was of course anxious to confuse a witness who was notoriously predisposed in favour of the other side, as much as he could. “Now, sir,” said Mr. Skimpin, “have the goodness to let his Lordship and the jury know what your name is, will you?” and Mr. Skimpin inclined his head on one side to listen with great sharpness to the answer, and glanced at the jury meanwhile, as if to imply that he rather expected Mr. Winkle’s natural taste for perjury would induce him to give some name which did not belong to him. “Winkle,” replied the witness. “What’s your Christian name, sir?” angrily inquired the little judge. “Nathaniel, sir.” “Daniel—any other name?” “Nathaniel, sir—my Lord, I mean.” “Nathaniel Daniel, or Daniel Nathaniel?” “No, my Lord, only Nathaniel; not Daniel at all.” “What did you tell me it was Daniel for, then, sir?” inquired the judge. “I didn’t, my Lord,” replied Mr. Winkle. “You did, sir,” replied the judge, with a severe frown. “How could I have got Daniel on my notes, unless you told me so, sir?” This argument was, of course, unanswerable. “Mr. Winkle has rather a short memory, my Lord,” interposed Mr. Skim- pin, with another glance at the jury. “We shall find means to refresh it before we have quite done with him, I daresay.” “You had better be careful, sir,” said the little judge, with a sinister look at the witness. Poor Mr. Winkle bowed, and endeavoured to feign an easiness of manner, which, in his then state of confusion, gave him rather the air of a disconcerted pickpocket. “Now, Mr. Winkle,” said Mr. Skimpin, “attend to me, if you please, sir; and let me recommend you, for your own sake, to bear in mind his

439TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS Lordship’s injunction to be careful. I believe you are a particular friend of Pickwick, the defendant, are you not?” “I have known Mr. Pickwick now, as well as I recollect at this moment, nearly—” “Pray, Mr. Winkle, do not evade the question. Are you, or are you not, a particular friend of the defendant’s?” “I was just about to say, that—” “Will you, or will you not, answer my question, sir?” “If you don’t answer the question you’ll be committed, sir,” interposed the little judge, looking over his note-book. “Come, sir,” said Mr. Skimpin, “yes or no, if you please.” “Yes, I am,” replied Mr. Winkle. “Yes, you are. And why couldn’t you say that at once, sir? Perhaps you know the plaintiff, too? Eh, Mr. Winkle?” “I don’t know her; I’ve seen her.” “Oh, you don’t know her, but you’ve seen her? Now, have the goodness to tell the gentlemen of the jury what you mean by that, Mr. Winkle.” “I mean that I am not intimate with her, but I have seen her when I went to call on Mr. Pickwick in Goswell Street.” “How often have you seen her, sir?” “How often?” “Yes, Mr. Winkle, how often? I’ll repeat the question for you a dozen times, if you require it, sir.” And the learned gentleman, with a firm and steady frown, placed his hands on his hips, and smiled suspiciously at the jury. On this question there arose the edifying browbeating, customary on such points. First of all, Mr. Winkle said it was quite impossible for him to say how many times he had seen Mrs. Bardell. Then he was asked if he had seen her twenty times, to which he replied, “Certainly—more than that.” Then he was asked whether he hadn’t seen her a hundred times—whether he couldn’t swear that he had seen her more than fifty times—whether he didn’t know that he had seen her at least seventy-five times—and so forth; the satisfactory confusion which was arrived at, at last, being, that he had better take care of himself, and mind what he was about. The witness having been by these means reduced to the requisite ebb of nervous perplexity, the examination was continued as follows: “Pray, Mr. Winkle, do you remember calling on the defendant Pickwick at these apartments in the plaintiff’s house in Goswell Street, on one particular morning, in the month of July last?” “Yes, I do.”

440 Charles Dickens “Were you accompanied on that occasion by a friend of the name of Tupman, and another of the name of Snodgrass?” “Yes, I was.” “Are they here?” “Yes, they are,” replied Mr. Winkle, looking very earnestly towards the spot where his friends were stationed. “Pray attend to me, Mr. Winkle, and never mind your friends,” said Mr. Skimpin, with another expressive look at the jury. “They must tell their stories without any previous consultation with you, if none has yet taken place (another look at the jury). Now, sir, tell the gentlemen of the jury what you saw on entering the defendant’s room, on this particular morning. Come; out with it, sir; we must have it, sooner or later.” “The defendant, Mr. Pickwick, was holding the plaintiff in his arms, with his hands clasping her waist,” replied Mr. Winkle with natural hesitation, “and the plaintiff appeared to have fainted away.” “Did you hear the defendant say anything?” “I heard him call Mrs. Bardell a good creature, and I heard him ask her to compose herself, for what a situation it was, if anybody should come, or words to that effect.” “Now, Mr. Winkle, I have only one more question to ask you, and I beg you to bear in mind his Lordship’s caution. Will you undertake to swear that Pickwick, the defendant, did not say on the occasion in question, ‘My dear Mrs. Bardell, you’re a good creature; compose yourself to this situation, for to this situation you must come,’ or words to that effect?” “I—I didn’t understand him so, certainly,” said Mr. Winkle, astounded at this ingenious dovetailing of the few words he had heard, “I was on the staircase, and couldn’t hear distinctly; the impression on my mind is—” “The gentlemen of the jury want none of the impressions on your mind, Mr. Winkle, which I fear would be of little service to honest, straightforward men,” interposed Mr. Skimpin. “You were on the staircase, and didn’t distinctly hear; but you will not swear that Pickwick did not make use of the expressions I have quoted? Do I understand that?” “No, I will not,” replied Mr. Winkle; and down sat Mr. Skimpin with a triumphant countenance. Mr. Pickwick’s case had not gone off in so particularly happy a manner, up to this point, that it could very well afford to have any additional sus- picion cast upon it. But as it could afford to be placed in a rather better light, if possible, Mr. Phunky rose for the purpose of getting something

441TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS important out of Mr. Winkle in cross-examination. Whether he did get anything important out of him, will immediately appear. “I believe, Mr. Winkle,” said Mr. Phunky, “that Mr. Pickwick is not a young man?” “Oh, no,” replied Mr. Winkle, “old enough to be my father.” “You have told my learned friend that you have known Mr. Pickwick a long time. Had you ever any reason to suppose or believe that he was about to be married?” “Oh, no; certainly not,” replied Mr. Winkle with so much eagerness that Mr. Phunky ought to have got him out of the box with all possible dispatch. Lawyers hold that there are two kinds of particularly bad witnesses: a reluctant witness, and a too willing witness; it was Mr. Winkle’s fate to figure in both characters. “I will even go further than this, Mr. Winkle,” continued Mr. Phunky in a most smooth and complacent manner. “Did you ever see anything in Mr. Pickwick’s manner and conduct towards the opposite sex, to induce you to believe that he ever contemplated matrimony of late years, in any case?” “Oh, no; certainly not,” replied Mr. Winkle. “Has his behaviour, when females have been in the case, always been that of a man, who, having attained a pretty advanced period of life, content with his own occupations and amusements, treats them only as a father might his daughters?” “Not the least doubt of it,” replied Mr. Winkle, in the fulness of his heart. “That is—yes—oh yes—certainly.” “You have never known anything in his behaviour towards Mrs. Bardell, or any other female, in the least degree suspicious?” said Mr. Phunky, preparing to sit down, for Serjeant Snubbin was winking at him. “N—n—no,” replied Mr. Winkle, “except on one trifling occasion, which, I have no doubt, might be easily explained.” Now, if the unfortunate Mr. Phunky had sat down when Serjeant Snubbin winked at him, or if Serjeant Buzfuz had stopped this irregular cross-examination at the outset (which he knew better than to do, observing Mr. Winkle’s anxiety, and well knowing it would, in all probability, lead to something serviceable to him), this unfortunate admission would not have been elicited. The moment the words fell from Mr. Winkle’s lips, Mr. Phunky sat down, and Serjeant Snubbin rather hastily told him he might leave the box, which Mr. Winkle prepared to do with great readiness, when Serjeant Buzfuz stopped him. “Stay, Mr. Winkle, stay!” said Serjeant Buzfuz, “will your Lordship

442 Charles Dickens have the goodness to ask him, what this one instance of suspicious behaviour towards females on the part of this gentleman, who is old enough to be his father, was?” “You hear what the learned counsel says, sir,” observed the judge, turning to the miserable and agonized Mr. Winkle. “Describe the occasion to which you refer.” “My Lord,” said Mr. Winkle, trembling with anxiety, “I—I’d rather not.” “Perhaps so,” said the little judge; “but you must.” Amid the profound silence of the whole court, Mr. Winkle faltered out that the trifling circumstance of suspicion was Mr. Pickwick’s being found in a lady’s sleeping apartment at midnight; which had terminated, he believed, in the breaking off of the projected marriage of the lady in question, and had led, he knew, to the whole party being forcibly carried before George Nupkins, Esq., magistrate and justice of the peace, for the borough of Ipswich! “You may leave the box, sir,” said Serjeant Snubbin. Mr. Winkle did leave the box, and rushed with delirious haste to the George and Vulture, where he was discovered some hours after, by the waiter, groaning in a hollow and dismal manner, with his head buried beneath the sofa cushions. Tracy Tupman and Augustus Snodgrass were severally called into the box; both corroborated the testimony of their unhappy friend; and each was driven to the verge of desperation by excessive badgering. Susannah Sanders was then called, and examined by Serjeant Buzfuz, and cross-examined by Serjeant Snubbin. Had always said and believed that Pickwick would marry Mrs. Bardell; knew that Mrs. Bardell’s being engaged to Pickwick was the current topic of conversation in the neighbourhood, after the fainting in July; had been told it herself by Mrs. Mudberry which kept a mangle, and Mrs. Bunkin which clear- starched, but did not see either Mrs. Mudberry or Mrs. Bunkin in court. Had heard Pickwick ask the little boy how he should like to have another father. Did not know that Mrs. Bardell was at that time keeping company with the baker, but did know that the baker was then a single man and is now married. Couldn’t swear that Mrs. Bardell was not very fond of the baker, but should think that the baker was not very fond of Mrs. Bardell, or he wouldn’t have married somebody else. Thought Mrs. Bardell fainted away on the morning in July because Pickwick asked her to name the day; knew that she (witness) fainted away stone dead when Mr. Sanders asked her to name the day, and believed that everybody as called herself a lady would do the same under similar circumstances.

443TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS Heard Pickwick ask the boy the question about the marbles, but upon her oath did not know the difference between an “alley tor” and a “commoney.” By the COU RT—During the period of her keeping company with Mr. Sanders, had received love letters, like other ladies. In the course of their correspondence Mr. Sanders had often called her a “duck,” but never “chops,” nor yet “tomato sauce.” He was particularly fond of ducks. Perhaps if he had been as fond of chops and tomato sauce, he might have called her that, as a term of affection. Serjeant Buzfuz now rose with more importance than he had yet exhibited, if that were possible, and vociferated: “Call Samuel Weller.” It was quite unnecessary to call Samuel Weller; for Samuel Weller stepped briskly into the box the instant his name was pronounced; and placing his hat on the floor, and his arms on the rail, took a bird’s-eye view of the bar, and a comprehensive survey of the bench, with a remarkably cheerful and lively aspect. “What’s your name, sir?” inquired the judge. “Sam Weller, my Lord,” replied that gentleman. “Do you spell it with a ‘V’ or a ‘W’?” inquired the judge. “That depends upon the taste and fancy of the speller, my Lord,” replied Sam; “I never had occasion to spell it more than once or twice in my life, but I spells it with a ‘V.’” Here a voice in the gallery exclaimed aloud, “Quite right too, Samivel, quite right. Put it down a we, my Lord, put it down a we.” “Who is that, who dares to address the court?” said the little judge, looking up. “Usher.” “Yes, my Lord.” “Bring that person here instantly.” “Yes, my Lord.” But as the usher didn’t find the person, he didn’t bring him; and, after a great commotion, all the people who had got up to look for the culprit sat down again. The little judge turned to the witness as soon as his indignation would allow him to speak, and said, “Do you know who that was, sir?” “I rayther suspect it was my father, my Lord,” replied Sam. “Do you see him here now?” said the judge. “No, I don’t, my Lord,” replied Sam, staring right up into the lantern in the roof of the court. “If you could have pointed him out, I would have committed him instantly,” said the judge.

444 Charles Dickens Sam bowed his acknowledgments and turned, with unimpaired cheerfulness of countenance, towards Serjeant Buzfuz. “Now, Mr. Weller,” said Serjeant Buzfuz. “Now, sir,” replied Sam. “I believe you are in the service of Mr. Pickwick, the defendant in this case. Speak up, if you please, Mr. Weller.” “I mean to speak up, sir,” replied Sam; “I am in the service o’ that ’ere gen’l’m’n, and a wery good service it is.” “Little to do, and plenty to get, I suppose?” said Serjeant Buzfuz, with jocularity. “Oh, quite enough to get, sir, as the soldier said ven they ordered him three hundred and fifty lashes,” replied Sam. “You must not tell us what the soldier, or any other man, said, sir,” interposed the judge; “it’s not evidence.” “Wery good, my Lord,” replied Sam. “Do you recollect anything particular happening on the morning when you were first engaged by the defendant, eh, Mr. Weller?” said Serjeant Buzfuz. “Yes I do, sir,” replied Sam. “Have the goodness to tell the jury what it was.” “I had a reg’lar new fit out o’ clothes that mornin’, gen’l’men of the jury,” said Sam, “and that was a wery partickler and uncommon circumstance vith me in those days.” Hereupon there was a general laugh; and the little judge, looking with an angry countenance over his desk, said, “You had better be careful, sir.” “So Mr. Pickwick said at the time, my Lord,” replied Sam; “and I was wery careful o’ that ’ere suit o’ clothes; wery careful indeed, my Lord.” The judge looked sternly at Sam for full two minutes, but Sam’s features were so perfectly calm and serene that the judge said nothing, and motioned Serjeant Buzfuz to proceed. “Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, folding his arms emphatically, and turning half-round to the jury, as if in mute assurance that he would bother the witness yet: “Do you mean to tell me, Mr. Weller, that you saw nothing of this fainting on the part of the plaintiff in the arms of the defendant, which you have heard described by the witnesses?” “Certainly not,” replied Sam. “I was in the passage ‘till they called me up, and then the old lady was not there.” “Now, attend, Mr. Weller,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, dipping a large pen

445TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS into the inkstand before him, for the purpose of frightening Sam with a show of taking down his answer. “You were in the passage, and yet saw nothing of what was going forward. Have you a pair of eyes, Mr. Weller?” “Yes, I have a pair of eyes,” replied Sam, “and that’s just it. If they wos a pair o’ patent double million magnifyin’ gas microscopes of hextra power, p’raps I might be able to see through a flight o’ stairs and a deal door; but bein’ only eyes, you see, my wision’s limited.” At this answer, which was delivered without the slightest appearance of irritation, and with the most complete simplicity and equanimity of manner, the spectators tittered, the little judge smiled, and Serjeant Buzfuz looked particularly foolish. After a short consultation with Dodson and Fogg, the learned Serjeant again turned towards Sam, and said, with a painful effort to conceal his vexation, “Now, Mr. Weller, I’ll ask you a question on another point, if you please.” “If you please, sir,” rejoined Sam, with the utmost good humour. “Do you remember going up to Mrs. Bardell’s house, one night in November last?” “Oh yes, very well.” “Oh, you do remember that, Mr. Weller,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, recovering his spirits; “I thought we should get at something at last.” “I rayther thought that, too, sir,” replied Sam; and at this the spectators tittered again. “Well; I suppose you went up to have a little talk about this trial—eh, Mr. Weller?” said Serjeant Buzfuz, looking knowingly at the jury. “I went up to pay the rent; but we did get a talkin’ about the trial,” replied Sam. “Oh, you did get a talking about the trial,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, brightening up with the anticipation of some important discovery. “Now what passed about the trial; will you have the goodness to tell us, Mr. Weller?” “Vith all the pleasure in life, sir,” replied Sam. “Arter a few unimportant obserwations from the two wirtuous females as has been examined here to-day, the ladies gets into a great state o’ admiration at the honourable conduct of Mr. Dodson and Fogg—them two gen’l’m’n as is settin’ near you now.” This, of course, drew general attention to Dodson and Fogg, who looked as virtuous as possible. “The attorneys for the plaintiff,” said Mr. Serjeant Buzfuz. “Well! They spoke in high praise of the honourable conduct of Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, the attorneys for the plaintiff, did they?”

446 Charles Dickens “Yes,” said Sam, “they said what a wery gen’rous thing it was o’ them to have taken up the case on spec, and to charge nothing at all for costs, unless they got ’em out of Mr. Pickwick.” At this very unexpected reply, the spectators tittered again, and Dodson and Fogg, turning very red, leant over to Serjeant Buzfuz, and in a hurried manner whispered something in his ear. “You are quite right,” said Serjeant Buzfuz aloud, with affected composure. “It’s perfectly useless, my Lord, attempting to get at any evidence through the impenetrable stupidity of this witness. I will not trouble the court by asking him any more questions. Stand down, sir.” “Would any other gen’l’man like to ask me anythin’?” inquired Sam, taking up his hat, and looking round most deliberately. “Not I, Mr. Weller, thank you,” said Serjeant Snubbin, laughing. “You may go down, sir,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, waving his hand impatiently. Sam went down accordingly, after doing Messrs. Dodson and Fogg’s case as much harm as he conveniently could, and saying just as little respecting Mr. Pickwick as might be, which was precisely the object he had had in view all along. “I have no objection to admit, my Lord,” said Serjeant Snubbin, “if it will save the examination of another witness, that Mr. Pickwick has retired from business, and is a gentleman of considerable independent property.” “Very well,” said Serjeant Buzfuz, putting in the two letters to be read, “Then that’s my case, my Lord.” Serjeant Snubbin then addressed the jury on behalf of the defendant; and a very long and a very emphatic address he delivered, in which he bestowed the highest possible eulogiums on the conduct and character of Mr. Pickwick; but inasmuch as our readers are far better able to form a correct estimate of that gentleman’s merits and deserts, than Serjeant Snubbin could possibly be, we do not feel called upon to enter at any length into the learned gentleman’s observations. He attempted to show that the letters which had been exhibited, merely related to Mr. Pickwick’s dinner, or to the preparations for receiving him in his apartments on his return from some country excursion. It is sufficient to add in general terms, that he did the best he could for Mr. Pickwick; and the best, as everybody knows, on the infallible authority of the old adage, could do no more. Mr. Justice Stareleigh summed up, in the old established and most approved form. He read as much of his notes to the jury as he could decipher on so short a notice, and made running comments on the evi-

447TH E PICKWICK PAP E RS dence as he went along. If Mrs. Bardell were right, it was perfectly clear that Mr. Pickwick was wrong, and if they thought the evidence of Mrs. Cluppins worthy of credence they would believe it, and, if they didn’t, why they wouldn’t. If they were satisfied that a breach of promise of marriage had been committed, they would find for the plaintiff with such damages as they thought proper; and if, on the other hand, it appeared to them that no promise of marriage had ever been given, they would find for the defendant with no damages at all. The jury then retired to their private room to talk the matter over, and the judge retired to his private room, to refresh himself with a mutton chop and a glass of sherry. An anxious quarter of an hour elapsed; the jury came back; the judge was fetched in. Mr. Pickwick put on his spectacles, and gazed at the foreman with an agitated countenance and a quickly beating heart. “Gentlemen,” said the individual in black, “are you all agreed upon your verdict?” “We are,” replied the foreman. “Do you find for the plaintiff, gentlemen, or for the defendant?” “For the plaintiff.” “With what damages, gentlemen?” “Seven hundred and fifty pounds.” Mr. Pickwick took off his spectacles, carefully wiped the glasses, folded them into their case, and put them in his pocket; then having drawn on his gloves with great nicety, and stared at the foreman all the while, he mechanically followed Mr. Perker and the blue bag out of court. They stopped in a side room while Perker paid the court fees; and here, Mr. Pickwick was joined by his friends. Here, too, he encountered Messrs. Dodson and Fogg, rubbing their hands with every token of outward satisfaction. “Well, gentlemen,” said Mr. Pickwick. “Well, sir,” said Dodson: for self and partner. “You imagine you’ll get your costs, don’t you, gentlemen?” said Mr. Pickwick. Fogg said they thought it rather probable. Dodson smiled, and said they’d try. “You may try, and try, and try again, Messrs. Dodson and Fogg,” said Mr. Pickwick vehemently, “but not one farthing of costs or damages do you ever get from me, if I spend the rest of my existence in a debtor’s prison.”

448 Charles Dickens “Ha, ha!” laughed Dodson. “You’ll think better of that, before next term, Mr. Pickwick.” “He, he, he! Well soon see about that, Mr. Pickwick,” grinned Fogg. Speechless with indignation, Mr. Pickwick allowed himself to be led by his solicitor and friends to the door, and there assisted into a hackney- coach, which had been fetched for the purpose by the ever watchful Sam Weller. Sam had put up the steps, and was preparing to jump upon the box, when he felt himself gently touched on the shoulder; and looking round, his father stood before him. The old gentleman’s countenance wore a mournful expression, as he shook his head gravely, and said, in warning accents: “I know’d what ’ud come o’ this here mode o’ doin’ bisness. Oh Sammy, Sammy, vy worn’t there a alleybi!” The foregoing consists of selections from Chapters XII, XVIII, XX, XXVI, XXXI, XXXIII, and XXXIV of THE PICKWICK PAPERS.

449 Nikolai Gogol 1809–1852 Nikolai Gogol was born in Sorochintsky, Russia, March 31, 1809.His family were Ukrainian Cossack landowners. In St. Petersburg at the end of the 1820’s, Gogol tried the theater and poetry. He resolved to emigrate to America. He got as far as Lübeck, Germany, then turned back to St. Petersburg and found a job in the civil service. In 1831–32, the two volumes of his Evenings on a Farm Near Dikanka, a reworking of Ukrainian folk stories, made him famous at once. He planned an eight- or nine-volume history of medieval Russia, never written. He was given a chair in history at the University of St. Petersburg, but resigned in 1835. During this period he published Arabesques and Cossack Tales, which included the renowned Taras Bulba, an account of the Cossack wars with Poles and Tartars in the sixteenth century. His best-known short story, The Overcoat (see below), also appeared at this time. Gogol’s great comedy, The Inspector-General, was first produced on April 19, 1836. This satire on officialdom has been translated into many languages and made into an American motion picture. Gogol spoke of Italy as his “true homeland.” He spent most of the years between 1836 and 1848 in Rome, though he hardly strayed from the Russian colony there. In Rome he wrote the famous comic novel, Dead Souls, published in 1842. This chronicle of a promoter who travels about Russia buying up the credentials of dead serfs becomes a mocking parade of Russian provincial types and customs. His second comedy for the stage, Marriage, was also written during his time in Italy. Back in Russia, he found himself the hero of the reformers. Like Tolstoy in his later years, Gogol began to regard himself as a moral missionary. He wrote a sequel to Dead Souls, in

450 Nikolai Gogol which the quick-witted promoter was redeemed, but destroyed it. When he published Selected Passages from a Correspondence With Friends, he was charged with “falsifying Christianity for the profit of those in power.” He made a melancholy pilgrimage to the Holy Land. Later he fell under the domination of a fanatic priest, Father Matthew Konstantinovsky, who convinced him that fiction was sinful. Gogol burned some of his manuscripts. He died on February 21, 1852. Akaky Akakievich, the antihero who becomes at last the hero ofThe Overcoat, is at once completely Russian and completely universal. We know him. Perhaps, worse luck, we have even been him. He is all but immemorial. He is the man at the bottom of the ladder in every business and government office—the least essential and the first to go, to be replaced by the manager’s cousin or a new machine. No doubt he or his ancestors existed in the ancient bureaucracies of Egypt and China. His descendants, men or more likely women, sit in the office chairs of Paris and New York. Gogol caught him once and for all with the skill of a great sociologist joined to the mastery of a great writer of fiction. This Akaky, this little man of the cities, came late to literature, but he came with a rush. We can find him under a dozen names in Balzac and Dickens and Zola and Dostoevsky. He is the obdurate old copyist of Wall Street in Melville’s Bartleby the Scrivener. He is the terrified clerk in Kafka’s The Metamorphosis. Indeed, without ever having given a thought to such things, he has become a world figure. He is the consumer. Advertisements are written for him. He is the man in the street. Candidates for office speak well of him and solicit his vote. But we need not be grandiose. He is Akaky, a simple man who has a simple problem. He needs a new overcoat. Gogol tells us about it as informally as a friend we had happened to meet, a good- hearted friend who knows very well that the story is both pitiful and comic. We see Akaky working in his office, the butt of the young clerks, who call his worn-out overcoat “the old dressing gown.” We see him at home, gulping his cabbage soup. Even there he gets out the inkwell and copies a document “for his own pleasure.” He works “with love.” He is happy. And little by little it comes

451Nikolai Gogol to us that Akaky is a “fool of God,” a small saint in an icon, a man too simplehearted for the mere act of living, so that he goes about with melon rinds on his hat and wakes up in the middle of the street with a horse’s nose thrust against his face. So we are pleased at how neatly he and his friend Petrovich the tailor solve the problem of a new overcoat. Like Akaky himself, we are “bubbling with good spirits” when he first puts it on. But we know that this little splendor will not last. Wrong from the start, when no one could find a name for him and he was forced to borrow his father’s, Akaky has no luck. We are not surprised at that brutal night scene in the square so wide it was “like being in the middle of the sea.” We only hope, for an instant, that these are his office friends, playing a trick on him. We witness the rage of “the important personage,” and Akaky’s death. Yes, we say. That is how it would be. But at the same time, we are struck by the sadness of the human condition.

452 The Overcoat nce, in a department . . . but better not mention which department. There is nothing touchier than departments, regiments, bureaus, in fact, any caste of officials. Things have reached the point where every individual takes an insult to himself as a slur on society as a whole. It seems that not long ago a complaint was lodged by the police inspector of I forget which town, in which he stated clearly that government institutions had been imperiled and his own sacred name taken in vain. In evidence he produced a huge volume, practically a novel, in which, every ten pages, a police inspector appears, and what’s more, at times completely drunk. So, to stay out of trouble, let us refer to it just as a department. And so, once, in a department, there worked a clerk. This clerk was nothing much to speak of: he was small, somewhat pock-marked, his hair was somewhat reddish and he even looked somewhat blind. Moreover, he was getting thin on top, had wrinkled cheeks and a complexion that might be aptly described as hemorrhoidal. But that’s the Petersburg climate for you. As to his civil-service category (for first a man’s standing should be established), he was what is called an eternal pen-pusher, a lowly ninth- class clerk, the usual butt of the jeers and jokes of those writers who have the congenial habit of biting those who cannot bite back. The clerk’s name was Shoenik. There is no doubt that this name derives from shoe but we know nothing of how, why, or when. His father, his grandfather, and even his brother-in-law wore boots, having new soles put on them not more than three times a year. His first name was Akaky, like his father’s, which made him Akaky Akakievich. This may sound somewhat strange and contrived but it is not contrived at all, and, in view of the circumstances, any other name was unthinkable. If I am not mistaken, Akaky Akakievich was born on the night between the 22nd and the 23rd of March. His late mother, an

453TH E OVE RC OAT excellent woman and the wife of a clerk, had made all the arrangements for the child’s christening, and, while she was still confined to her bed, the godparents arrived: the worthy Ivan Yeroshkin, head clerk in the Senate, and Arina Whitetumkin, the wife of a police captain, a woman of rare virtue. The new mother was given her pick of the following three names for her son: Mochius, Sossius, and that of the martyr Hotzazat. “That won’t do,” Akaky’s late mother thought. “Those names are . . . how shall I put it . . .” To please her, the godparents opened the calendar at another page and again three names came out: Strifilius, Dulius, and Varachasius. “We’re in a mess,” the old woman said. “Who ever heard of such names? If it was something like Varadat or Varuch, I wouldn’t object . . . but Strifilius and Varachasius . . .” So they turned to yet another page and out came Pavsicachius and Vachtisius. “Well, that’s that,” the mother said. “That settles it. He’ll just have to be Akaky like his father.” So that’s how Akaky Akakievich originated. And when they christened the child it cried and twisted its features into a sour expression as though it had a foreboding that it would become a ninth-class clerk. Well, that’s how it all happened and it has been reported here just to show that the child couldn’t have been called anything but Akaky. No one remembers who helped him get his appointment to the department or when he started working there. Directors and all sorts of chiefs came and went but he was always to be found at the same place, in the same position, and in the same capacity, that of copying clerk. Until, after a while, people began to believe that he must have been born just as he was, shabby frock coat, bald patch, and all. In the office, not the slightest respect was shown him. The porters didn’t get up when he passed. In fact, they didn’t even raise their eyes, as if nothing but an ordinary fly had passed through the reception room. His chiefs were cold and despotic with him. Some head clerks would just thrust a paper under his nose without even saying, “Copy this,” or “Here’s a nice interesting little job for you,” or some such pleasant remark as is current in well-bred offices. And Akaky Akakievich would take the paper without glancing up to see who had put it under his nose or whether the person was entitled to do so. And right away he would set about copying it. The young clerks laughed at him and played tricks on him to the limit

454 Nikolai Gogol of their clerkish wit. They made up stories about him and told them in front of him. They said that his seventy-year-old landlady beat him and asked him when the wedding would be. They scattered scraps of paper which they said was snow over his head. But with all this going on, Akaky Akakievich never said a word and even acted as though no one were there. It didn’t even affect his work and in spite of their loud badgering he made no mistakes in his copying. Only when they tormented him unbearably, when they jogged his elbow and prevented him from getting on with his work, would he say: “Let me be. Why do you do this to me? . . .” And his words and the way he said them sounded strange. There was something touching about them. Once a young man who was new to the office started to tease him, following the crowd. Suddenly he stopped as if awakened from a trance and, after that, he couldn’t stand the others, whom at first he had deemed decent people. And for a long time to come, during his gayest moments, he would suddenly see in his mind’s eye the little, balding clerk and he would hear the words, “Let me be. Why do you do this to me?” and within those words rang the phrase, “I am your brother.” And the young man would cover his face with his hands. Later in life, he often shuddered, musing about the wickedness of man toward man and all the cruelty and vulgarity which are concealed under refined manners. And this, he decided, was also true of men who were considered upright and honorable. It would be hard to find a man who so lived for his job. It would not be enough to say that he worked conscientiously—he worked with love. There, in his copying, he found an interesting, pleasant world for himself and his delight was reflected in his face. He had his favorites among the letters of the alphabet and, when he came to them, he would chuckle, wink and help them along with his lips so that they could almost be read on his face as they were formed by his pen. Had he been rewarded in proportion with his zeal, he would, perhaps to his own surprise, have been promoted to fifth-class clerk. But all he got out of it was, as his witty colleagues put it, a pin for his buttonhole and hemorrhoids to sit on. Still, it would be unfair to say that no attention had ever been paid him. One of the successive directors, a kindly man, who thought Akaky Akakievich should be rewarded for his long service, suggested that he be given something more interesting than ordinary copying. So he was asked to prepare an already drawn-up document for referral to another department. Actually, all he had to do was to give it a new heading and

455TH E OVE RC OAT change some of the verbs from the first to the third person. But Akaky Akakievich found this work so complicated that he broke into a sweat and finally, mopping his brow, he said: “Oh no, I would rather have something to copy instead.” After that they left him to his copying forever. And aside from it, it seemed, nothing existed for him. He never gave a thought to his clothes. His frock coat, which was supposed to be green, had turned a sort of mealy reddish. Its collar was very low and very narrow so that his neck, which was really quite ordinary, looked incredibly long—like the spring necks of the head- shaking plaster kittens which foreign peddlers carry around on their heads on trays. And, somehow, there was always something stuck to Akaky Akakievich’s frock coat, a wisp of hay, a little thread. Then too, he had a knack of passing under windows just when refuse happened to be thrown out and as a result was forever carrying around on his hat melon rinds and other such rubbish. Never did he pay any attention to what was going on around him in the street. In this he was very different from the other members of the pen-pushing brotherhood, who are so keen-eyed and observant that they’ll notice an undone strap on the bottom of someone’s trousers, an observation that unfailingly molds their features into a sly sneer. But even when Akaky Akakievich’s eyes were resting on something, he saw superimposed on it his own well-formed, neat handwriting. Perhaps it was only when, out of nowhere, a horse rested its head on his shoulder and sent a blast of wind down his cheek that he’d realize he was not in the middle of a line but in the middle of a street. When he got home he would sit straight down to the table and quickly gulp his cabbage soup, followed by beef and onions. He never noticed the taste and ate it with flies and whatever else God happened to send along. When his stomach began to feel bloated, he would get up from the table, take out his inkwell, and copy papers he had brought with him from the office. And if there weren’t any papers to copy for the office, he would make a copy for his own pleasure, especially if the document were unusual. Unusual, not for the beauty of its style, but because it was addressed to some new or important personage. Even during those hours when light has completely disappeared from the gray Petersburg sky and the pen-pushing brotherhood have filled themselves with dinner of one sort or another, each as best he can according to his income and his preference; when everyone has rested from the

456 Nikolai Gogol scraping of pens in the office, from running around on their own and others’ errands; when the restless human being has relaxed after the tasks, sometimes unnecessary, he sets himself; and the clerks hasten to give over the remaining hours to pleasure—the more enterprising among them rushes to the theater, another walks in the streets, allotting his time to the inspection of ladies’ hats; another spends his evening paying compliments to some prettyish damsel, the queen of a small circle of clerks; another, the most frequent case, goes to visit a brother clerk, who lives somewhere on the third or fourth floor, in two small rooms with a hall of a kitchen and some little pretensions to fashion, a lamp or some other article bought at great sacrifice, such as going without dinner or outside pleasures—in brief, at the time when all clerks have dispersed among the lodgings of their friends to play a little game of whist, sipping tea from glasses and nibbling biscuits, inhaling the smoke from their long pipes, relaying, while the cards are dealt, some bit of gossip that has trickled down from high society, a thing which a Russian cannot do without whatever his circumstances, and even, when there’s nothing else to talk about, telling once again the ancient joke about the commandant to whom it was reported that someone had hacked the tail off the horse of the monument to Peter the First—in a word, when everyone else was trying to have a good time, Akaky Akakievich was not even thinking of diverting himself. No one had ever seen him at a party in the evening. Having written to his heart’s content, he would go to bed, smiling in anticipation of the morrow, of what God would send him to copy. Thus flowed the life of a man who, on a yearly salary of four hundred rubles, was content with his lot. And perhaps it would have flowed on to old age if it hadn’t been for the various disasters which are scattered along life’s paths, not only for ninth-class clerks, but even for eighth-, seventh-, sixth-class clerks and all the way up to State Councilors, Privy Councilors, and even to those who counsel no one, not even themselves. In Petersburg, there’s a formidable enemy for all those who receive a salary in the neighborhood of four hundred rubles a year. The enemy is none other than our northern cold, although they say it’s very healthy. Between eight and nine in the morning, at just the time when the streets are filled with people walking to their offices, the cold starts to mete out indiscriminately such hard, stinging flicks on noses that the wretched clerks don’t know where to put them. And when the cold

457TH E OVE RC OAT pinches the brows and brings tears to the eyes of those in high positions, ninth-class clerks are completely defenseless. They can only wrap themselves in their threadbare overcoats and run as fast as they can the five or six blocks to the office. Once arrived, they have to stamp their feet in the vestibule until their abilities and talents, which have been frozen on the way, thaw out once again. Akaky Akakievich had noticed that for some time the cold had been attacking his back and shoulders quite viciously, try as he might to sprint the prescribed distance. He finally began to wonder whether the fault did not lie with his overcoat. When he gave it a good looking-over in his room, he discovered that in two or three places—the shoulders and back—it had become very much like gauze. The cloth was worn so thin that it let the draft in, and, to make things worse, the lining had disintegrated. It must be noted that Akaky Akakievich’s overcoat had also been a butt of the clerks’ jokes. They had even deprived it of its respectable name, referring to it as the old dressing gown. And, as far as that goes, it did have a strange shape. Its collar shrank with every year, since it was used to patch other areas. And the patching, which did not flatter the tailor, made the overcoat baggy and ugly. Having located the trouble, Akaky Akakievich decided to take the cloak to Petrovich, a tailor who lived somewhere on the fourth floor, up a back stairs, and who, one-eyed and pock-marked as he was, was still quite good at repairing clerks’ and other such people’s trousers and frock coats, provided he happened to be sober and hadn’t other things on his mind. We shouldn’t, of course, waste too many words on the tailor, but since it has become the fashion to give a thorough description of every character figuring in a story, there’s nothing to be done but to give you Petrovich. At first he was called just Grigory and was the serf of some gentleman or other. He began to call himself Petrovich when he received his freedom and took to drinking rather heavily on all holidays, on the big ones at first and then, without distinction, on all church holidays—on any day marked by a little cross on the calendar. In this he was true to the traditions of his forefathers, and, when his wife nagged him about it, he called her impious and a German. Now that we’ve mentioned his wife, we’d better say a word or two about her, too. But unfortunately very little is known about her, except that Petrovich had a wife who wore a bonnet instead of a kerchief, but was apparently no beauty, since,

458 Nikolai Gogol on meeting her, it occurred to no one but an occasional soldier to peek under that bonnet of hers, twitching his mustache and making gurgling sounds. Going up the stairs leading to Petrovich’s place, which, to be honest about it, were saturated with water and slops and exuded that ammonia smell which burns your eyes and which you’ll always find on the back stairs of all Petersburg houses—going up those stairs, Akaky Akakievich was already conjecturing how much Petrovich would ask and making up his mind not to pay more than two rubles. The door stood open because Petrovich’s wife was cooking some fish or other and had made so much smoke in the kitchen that you couldn’t even see the cockroaches. Akaky Akakievich went through the kitchen without even seeing Mrs. Petrovich and finally reached the other room, where he saw Petrovich sitting on a wide, unpainted wooden table, with his legs crossed under him like a Turkish pasha. He was barefoot, as tailors at work usually are, and the first thing Akaky Akakievich saw was Petrovich’s big toe, with its twisted nail, thick and hard like a tortoise shell. A skein of silk and cotton thread hung around Petrovich’s neck. On his knees there was some old garment. For the past three minutes he had been trying to thread his needle, very irritated at the darkness of the room and even with the thread itself, muttering under his breath: “It won’t go through, the pig, it’s killing me, the bitch!” Akaky Akakievich was unhappy to find Petrovich so irritated. He preferred to negotiate when the tailor was a little under the weather, or, as his wife put it, “when the one-eyed buzzard had a load on.” When caught in such a state, Petrovich usually gave way very readily on the price and would even thank Akaky Akakievich with respectful bows and all that. True, afterwards, his wife would come whining that her husband had charged too little because he was drunk; but all you had to do was to add ten kopeks and it was a deal. This time, however, Petrovich seemed to be sober and therefore curt, intractable, and likely to charge an outrageous price. Akaky Akakievich realized this and would have liked to beat a hasty retreat, but the die was cast. Petrovich had fixed his one eye on him and Akaky Akakievich involuntarily came out with: “Hello, Petrovich.” “Wish you good day, sir,” said Petrovich and bent his eye toward Akaky Akakievich’s hands to see what kind of spoil he had brought him. “Well, Petrovich, I’ve come . . . see . . . the thing is . . . to . . .” It should be realized that Akaky Akakievich used all sorts of preposi-

459TH E OVE RC OAT tions, adverbs and all those meaningless little parts of speech when he spoke. Moreover, if the matter were very involved, he generally didn’t finish his sentences and opened them with the words: “This, really, is absolutely, I mean to say . . .” and then nothing more—he had forgotten that he hadn’t said what he wanted to. “What is it then?” Petrovich asked, looking over Akaky Akakievich’s frock coat with his one eye, the collar, the sleeves, the back, the tails, the buttonholes, all of which he was already acquainted with, since, repairs and all, it was his own work. That’s just what tailors do as soon as they see you. “Well, it’s like this, Petrovich . . . my cloak, well, the material . . . look, you can see, everywhere else it’s very strong, well, it’s a bit dusty and it looks rather shabby, but it’s not really . . . look, it’s just in one place it’s a little . . . on the back here, and here too . . . it’s a little worn . . . and here on this shoulder too, a little—and that’s all. There’s not much work . . .” Petrovich took Akaky Akakievich’s old dressing gown, as his colleagues called it, spread it out on the table and looked it over at length. Then he shook his head and, stretching out his hand, took from the window sill a snuffbox embellished with the portrait of a general, though just what general it was impossible to tell since right where his face used to be there was now a dent glued over with a piece of paper. Taking some snuff, Petrovich spread the overcoat out on his hands, held it up against the light and again shook his head. Then he turned the overcoat inside out, with the lining up, and shook his head again. Then, once more, he removed the snuffbox lid with its general under the piece of paper, and, stuffing snuff into his nose, closed the box, put it away, and finally said: “No. It can’t be mended. It’s no use.” At these words, Akaky Akakievich’s heart turned over. “But why can’t it be, Petrovich?” he said in the imploring voice of a child. “Look, the only trouble is that it’s worn around the shoulders. I’m sure you have some scraps of cloth . . .” “As for scraps, I suppose I could find them,” Petrovich said, “but I couldn’t sew them on. The whole thing is rotten. It’d go to pieces the moment you touched it with a needle.” “Well, if it starts to go, you’ll catch it with a patch . . .” “But there’s nothing for patches to hold to. It’s too far gone. It’s only cloth in name—a puff of wind and it’ll disintegrate.” “Still, I’m sure you can make them hold just the same. Otherwise, really, Petrovich, see what I mean . . .”

460 Nikolai Gogol “No,” Petrovich said with finality, “nothing can be done with it. It’s just no good. You’d better make yourself some bands out of it to wrap round your legs when it’s cold and socks aren’t enough to keep you warm. The Germans thought up those things to make money for themselves.”—Petrovich liked to take a dig at the Germans whenever there was a chance.—“As to the overcoat, it looks as if you’ll have to have a new one made.” At the word “new” Akaky Akakievich’s vision became foggy and the whole room began to sway. The only thing he saw clearly was the general with the paper-covered face on the lid of Petrovich’s snuffbox. “What do you mean a new one?” he said, talking as if in a dream. “I haven’t even got the money . . .” “A new one,” Petrovich repeated with savage calm. “Well, but if I really had to have a new one, how would it be that . . .” “That is, what will it cost?” “Yes.” “Well, it will be over one hundred and fifty rubles,” Petrovich said, pursing his lips meaningfully. He liked strong effects, he liked to perplex someone suddenly and then observe the grimace that his words produced. “A hundred and fifty rubles for an overcoat!” shrieked the poor Akaky Akakievich, shrieked perhaps for the first time in his life, since he was always noted for his quietness. “Yes, sir,” said Petrovich, “but what an overcoat! And if it is to have marten on the collar and a silk-lined hood, that’ll bring it up to two hundred.” “Please, Petrovich, please,” Akaky Akakievich said beseechingly, not taking in Petrovich’s words or noticing his dramatic effects, “mend it somehow, just enough to make it last a little longer.” “No sir, it won’t work. It would be a waste of labor and money.” Akaky Akakievich left completely crushed. And when he left, Petrovich, instead of going back to his work, remained for a long time immobile, his lips pursed meaningfully. He was pleased with himself for having upheld his own honor as well as that of the entire tailoring profession. Akaky Akakievich emerged into the street feeling as if he were in a dream. “So that’s it,” he repeated to himself. “I never suspected it would turn out this way . . .” and then, after a brief pause, he went on: “So that’s it! Here’s how it turns out in the end, and I, really, simply couldn’t have foreseen it.” After another, longer pause, he added: “And so here we are! Here’s how things stand. I in no way expected . . . but this is

461TH E OVE RC OAT impossible . . . what a business!” Muttering thus, instead of going home, he went in the opposite direction, without having the slightest idea of what was going on. As he was walking, a chimney sweep brushed his dirty side against him and blackened his whole shoulder; a whole bucketful of lime was showered over him from the top of a house under construction. But he noticed nothing and only when he bumped into a watchman who, resting his halberd near him, was shaking some snuff out of a horn into his calloused palm, did he come to a little and that only because the watchman said: “Ya hafta knock my head off? Ya got the whole sidewalk, ain’tcha?” This caused him to look about him and turn back toward home. Only then did he start to collect his thoughts and to see his real position clearly. He began to talk to himself, not in bits of phrases now but sensibly, as to a wise friend in whom he could confide. “Oh no,” he said, “this wasn’t the moment to speak to Petrovich. Right now he’s sort of . . . his wife obviously has given him a beating . . . that sort of thing. It’d be better if I went and saw him Sunday morning. After Saturday night, his one eye will be wandering and he’ll be tired and in need of another drink, and his wife won’t give him the money. So I’ll slip him a quarter and that will make him more reasonable and so, for the overcoat . . .” Thus Akaky Akakievich tried to reassure himself, and persuaded himself to wait for Sunday. When that day came, he waited at a distance until he saw Petrovich’s wife leave the house and then went up. After his Saturday night libations, Petrovich’s eye certainly was wandering. He hung his head and looked terribly sleepy. But, despite all that, as soon as he learned what Akaky Akakievich had come about, it was as if the devil had poked him. “It can’t be done,” he said. “You must order a new one.” Here Akaky Akakievich pressed the quarter on him. “Thank you,” Petrovich said. “I’ll drink a short one to you, sir. And as to the overcoat, you can stop worrying. It’s worthless. But I’ll make you a first-rate new one. That I’ll see to.” Akaky Akakievich tried once more to bring the conversation around to mending, but Petrovich, instead of listening, said: “I’ll make you a new one, sir, and you can count on me to do my best. I may even make the collar fastened with silver-plated clasps for you.” At this point Akaky Akakievich saw that he’d have to have a new overcoat and he became utterly depressed. Where was he going to get the money? There was of course the next holiday bonus. But the sum involved

462 Nikolai Gogol had long ago been allotted to other needs. He had to order new trousers, to pay the cobbler for replacing the tops on his boots. He owed the seamstress for three shirts and simply had to have two items of underwear which one cannot refer to in print. In fact, all the money, to the last kopek, was owed, and even if the director made an unexpectedly generous gesture and allotted him, instead of forty rubles, a whole forty-five or even fifty, the difference would be a drop in the ocean in the overcoat outlay. It is true Akaky Akakievich knew that, on occasions, Petrovich slapped on heaven knows what exorbitant price, so that even his wife couldn’t refrain from exclaiming: “Have you gone mad, you fool! One day he accepts work for nothing, and the next, something gets into him and makes him ask for more than he’s worth himself.” But he also knew that Petrovich would agree to make him a new overcoat for eighty rubles. Even so, where was he to find the eighty? He could perhaps scrape together half that sum. Even a little more. But where would he get the other half? . . . Let us, however, start with the first half and see where it was to come from. Akaky Akakievich had a rule: whenever he spent one ruble, he slipped a copper into a little box with a slot in its side. Every six months, he counted the coppers and changed them for silver. He’d been doing this for a long time and, after all these years, had accumulated more than forty rubles. So this came to one half. But what about the remaining forty rubles? Akaky Akakievich thought and thought and decided that he would have to reduce his regular expenses for an entire year at least. It would mean going without his evening tea; not burning candles at night, and, if he absolutely had to have light, going to his landlady’s room and working by her candle. It would mean, when walking in the street, stepping as carefully as possible over the cobbles and paving stones, almost tiptoeing, so as not to wear out the soles of his boots too rapidly, and giving out his laundry as seldom as possible, and, so that it shouldn’t get too soiled, undressing as soon as he got home and staying in just his thin cotton dressing gown, which, if time hadn’t taken pity on it, would itself have collapsed long ago. It must be admitted that, at first, he suffered somewhat from these restrictions. But then he became accustomed to them somehow and things went smoothly again. He even got used to going hungry in the evenings, but then he was able to feed himself spiritually, carrying within him

463TH E OVE RC OAT the eternal idea of his overcoat-to-be. It was as if his existence had become somehow fuller, as if he had married and another human being were there with him, as if he were no longer alone on life’s road but walking by the side of a delightful companion. And that companion was none other than the overcoat itself, with its thick padding and strong lining that would last forever. In some way, he became more alive, even stronger-minded, like a man who has determined his ultimate goal in life. From his face and actions all the marks of vacillation and indecision vanished. At times, there was even a fire in his eyes and the boldest, wildest notions flashed through his head—perhaps he should really consider having marten put on the collar? The intensity of these thoughts almost distracted his attention from his work. Once he almost made a mistake, which caused him to exclaim—true, very softly—“Oof!” and to cross himself. At least once each month he looked in on Petrovich to discuss the overcoat—the best place to buy the material, its color, its price . . . Then, on the way home, a little worried but always pleased, he mused about how, finally, all this buying would be over and the coat would be made. Things went ahead faster than he had expected. Beyond all expectations, the director granted Akaky Akakievich not forty, nor forty- five, but a whole sixty rubles. Could he have had a premonition that Akaky Akakievich needed a new overcoat, or had it just happened by itself? Whatever it was, Akaky Akakievich wound up with an extra twenty rubles. This circumstance speeded matters up. Another two or three months of moderate hunger and he had almost all of the eighty rubles he needed. His heartbeat, generally very quiet, grew faster. As soon as he could, he set out for the store with Petrovich. They bought excellent material, which is not surprising since they had been planning the move for all of six months, and a month had seldom gone by without Akaky Akakievich dropping into the shop to work out prices. Petrovich himself said that there was no better material to be had. For the lining they chose calico, but so good and thick that, Petrovich said, it even looked better and glossier than silk. They did not buy marten because it was too expensive. Instead they got cat, the best available—cat which at a distance could always be taken for marten. Petrovich spent two full weeks on the overcoat because of all the quilting he had to do. He charged twelve rubles for his work—it was impossible to take less; it had been sewn with silk, with fine double seams, and Petrovich had

464 Nikolai Gogol gone over each seam again afterwards with his own teeth, squeezing out different patterns with them. It was—well, it’s hard to say exactly which day it was, but it was probably the most solemn day in Akaky Akakievich’s life, the day Petrovich finally brought him the overcoat. He brought it in the morning, just before it was time to go to the office. There couldn’t have been a better moment for the coat to arrive, because cold spells had been creeping in and threatened to become even more severe. Petrovich appeared with the coat, as befits a good tailor. He had an expression of importance on his face that Akaky Akakievich had never seen before. He looked very much aware of having performed an important act, an act that carries tailors over the chasm which separates those who merely put in linings and do repairs from those who create. He took the overcoat out of the gigantic handkerchief—just fresh from the wash—in which he had wrapped it to deliver it. The handkerchief he folded neatly and put in his pocket, ready for use. Then he took the coat, looked at it with great pride and, holding it in both hands, threw it quite deftly around Akaky Akakievich’s shoulders. He pulled and smoothed it down at the back, wrapped it around Akaky Akakievich, leaving it a little open at the front. Akaky Akakievich, a down-to-earth sort of man, wanted to try out the sleeves. Petrovich helped him to pull his arms through and it turned out that with the sleeves too it was good. In a word, it was clear that the coat fitted perfectly. Petrovich didn’t fail to take advantage of the occasion to remark that it was only because he did without a signboard, lived in a small side street, and had known Akaky Akakievich for a long time that he had charged him so little. On Nevsky Avenue, nowadays, he said, they’d have taken seventy-five rubles for the work alone. Akaky Akakievich had no desire to debate the point with Petrovich—he was always rather awed by the big sums which Petrovich liked to mention to impress people. He paid up, thanked Petrovich, and left for the office wearing his new overcoat. Petrovich followed him and stood for a long time in the street, gazing at the overcoat from a distance. Then he plunged into a curving side street, took a short cut, and reemerged on the street ahead of Akaky Akakievich, so that he could have another look at the coat from another angle. Meanwhile, Akaky Akakievich walked on, bubbling with good spirits. Every second of every minute he felt the new overcoat on his shoulders and several times he even let out a little chuckle of inward pleasure. In-

465TH E OVE RC OAT deed, the overcoat presented him with a double advantage: it was warm and it was good. He didn’t notice his trip at all and suddenly found himself before the office building. In the porter’s lodge, he slipped off the overcoat, inspected it, and entrusted it to the porter’s special care. No one knows how, but it suddenly became general knowledge in the office that Akaky Akakievich had a new overcoat and that the old dressing gown no longer existed. Elbowing one another, they all rushed to the cloakroom to see the new coat. Then they proceeded to congratulate him. He smiled at first, but then the congratulations became too exuberant, and he felt embarrassed. And when they surrounded him and started trying to persuade him that the very least he could do was to invite them over one evening to drink to the coat, Akaky Akakievich felt completely at a loss, didn’t know what to do with himself, what to say or how to talk himself out of it. And a few minutes later, all red in the face, he was trying rather naively to convince them that it wasn’t a new overcoat at all, that it wasn’t much, that it was an old one. In the end, a clerk, no lesser person than an assistant to the head clerk, probably wanting to show that he wasn’t too proud to mingle with those beneath him, said: “All right then, I’ll do it instead of Akaky Akakievich. I invite you all over for a party. Come over to my place tonight. Incidentally, it happens to be my birthday today.” Naturally the clerks now congratulated the head clerk’s assistant and happily accepted his invitation. Akaky Akakievich started to excuse himself, but he was told that it would be rude on his part, a disgrace, so he had to give way in the end. And later he was even rather pleased that he had accepted, since it would give him an opportunity to wear the new coat in the evening too. Akaky Akakievich felt as if it were a holiday. He arrived home in the happiest frame of mind, took off the overcoat, hung it up very carefully on the wall, gave the material and the lining one more admiring inspection. Then he took out that ragged item known as the old dressing gown and put it next to the new overcoat, looked at it and began to laugh, so great was the difference between the two. And long after that, while eating his dinner, he snorted every time he thought of the dressing gown. He felt very gay during his dinner, and afterwards he did no copying whatsoever. Instead he wallowed in luxury for a while, lying on his bed until dark. Then, without further dallying, he dressed, pulled on his new overcoat and went out. It is, alas, impossible to say just where the party-giving clerk lived. My

466 Nikolai Gogol memory is beginning to fail me badly and everything in Petersburg, streets and houses, has become so mixed up in my head that it’s very difficult to extract anything from it and to present it in an orderly fashion. Be that as it may, it is a fact that the clerk in question lived in a better district of the city, which means not too close to Akaky Akakievich. To start with, Akaky Akakievich had to pass through a maze of deserted, dimly lit streets, but, toward the clerk’s house, the streets became lighter and livelier. More pedestrians began flashing by more often; there were some well-dressed ladies and men with beaver collars. And, instead of the drivers with their wooden, fretworked sledges studded with gilt nails, he came across smart coachmen in crimson velvet caps, in lacquered sledges, with bearskin lap rugs. He even saw some carriages darting past with decorated boxes, their wheels squeaking on the snow. Akaky Akakievich gazed around him. For several years now he hadn’t been out in the evening. He stopped before the small, lighted window of a shop, staring curiously at a picture of a pretty woman kicking off her shoe and thereby showing her whole leg, which was not bad at all; in the background, some man or other with side whiskers and a handsome Spanish goatee was sticking his head through a door leading to another room. Akaky Akakievich shook his head, snorted, smiled and walked on. Why did he snort? Was it because he had come across something that, although completely strange to him, still aroused in him, as it would in anyone, a certain instinct—or did he think, as many clerks do, along the following lines: “Well, really, the French! If they are after something . . . that sort of thing . . . then, really! . . .” Maybe he didn’t even think that. After all, one can’t just creep into a man’s soul and find out everything he’s thinking. At last he reached the house in which the head clerk’s assistant lived. And he lived in style, on the second floor, with the staircase lighted by a lantern. In the hall, Akaky Akakievich found several rows of galoshes. Amidst the galoshes, a samovar was hissing and puffing steam. All around the walls hung overcoats and cloaks, some with beaver collars and others with velvet lapels. The noise and talk that could be heard through the partition became suddenly clear and resounding when the door opened and a servant came out with a tray of empty glasses, a cream jug, and a basket of cookies. It was clear that the clerks had arrived long before and had already drunk their first round of tea. Akaky Akakievich hung his coat up and went in. In a flash, he took in the candles, the clerks, the pipes, the card tables, while his ears were filled with the hubbub of voices rising all around him and the banging of

467TH E OVE RC OAT chairs being moved. Awkwardly, he paused in the middle of the room, trying to think what to do. But he had been noticed and his arrival was greeted with a huge yell. Immediately everybody rushed out into the hall to have another look at his new overcoat. Akaky Akakievich felt a bit confused, but, being an uncomplicated man, he was rather pleased when everyone agreed that it was a good overcoat. Soon, however, they abandoned him and his overcoat and turned their attention, as was to be expected, to the card tables. The din, the voices, the presence of so many people—all this was unreal to Akaky Akakievich. He had no idea how to behave, where to put his hands, his feet, or, for that matter, his whole body. He sat down near a card table, stared at the cards and peeked in turn into the faces of the players. In a little while he got bored and began to yawn, feeling rather sleepy—it was long past his usual bedtime. He wanted to take leave of the host, but they wouldn’t let him go. He really had to toast his new overcoat with champagne, they insisted. They made Akaky Akakievich drink two glasses of champagne, after which he felt that the party was becoming gayer, but nevertheless he was quite unable to forget that it was now midnight and that he should have gone home long ago. In spite of everything his host could think up to keep him, he went quietly out into the hall, found his overcoat, which to his annoyance was lying on the floor, shook it, carefully removed every speck he could find on it, put it on and walked down the stairs and out into the street. The street was still lighted. Some little stores, those meeting places for servants and people of every sort, were open, while others, although closed, still showed a long streak of light under their doors, which indicated that the company had not yet dispersed and that the menservants and maids were finishing up their gossip and their conversations, leaving their masters perplexed as to their whereabouts. Akaky Akakievich walked along in such a gay mood that, who knows why, he almost darted after a lady who flashed by him like a streak of lightning, every part of her body astir with independent, fascinating motion. Still, he restrained himself immediately, went back to walking slowly and even wondered where that compulsion to gallop had come from. Soon there stretched out before him those deserted streets which, even in the daytime, are not so gay, and, now that it was night, looked even more desolate. Fewer street lamps were lit—obviously a smaller oil allow- ance was given out in this district. Then came wooden houses and fences; not a soul around, nothing but glistening snow and the black silhouettes of the low, sleeping hovels with their shuttered windows. He came to the

468 Nikolai Gogol spot where the street cut through a square so immense that the houses opposite were hardly visible beyond its sinister emptiness. God knows where, far away on the edge of the world, he could see the glow of a brazier by a watchman’s hut. Akaky Akakievich’s gay mood definitely waned. He could not suppress a shiver as he stepped out into the square, a foreboding of evil in his heart. He glanced behind him and to either side—it was like being in the middle of the sea. “No, it’s better not to look,” he thought, and walked on with his eyes shut. And when he opened them again to see if the other side of the square was close, he saw instead, standing there, almost in front of his nose, people with mustaches, although he couldn’t make out exactly who or what. Then his vision became foggy and there was a beating in his chest. “Why, here’s my overcoat,” one of the people thundered, grabbing him by the collar. Akaky Akakievich was just going to shout out “Help!” when another brought a fist about the size of a clerk’s head up to his very mouth, and said: “You just try and yell . . .” Akaky Akakievich felt them pull off his coat, then he received a knee in the groin. He went down on his back and after that he lay in the snow and felt nothing more. When he came to a few minutes later and scrambled to his feet, there was no one around. He felt cold and, when he realized that the overcoat was gone, desperate. He let out a yell. But his voice didn’t come close to reaching the other side of the square. Frantic, he hollered all the way across the square as he scrambled straight toward the watchman’s hut. The watchman was standing beside it, leaning on his halberd, and gazing out across the square, wondering who it could be running toward him and shouting. At last Akaky Akakievich reached him. Gasping for breath, he began shouting at him— what sort of a watchman did he think he was, hadn’t he seen anything, and why the devil had he allowed them to rob a man? The watchman said he had seen no one except the two men who had stopped Akaky Akakievich in the middle of the square, who he had thought were friends of his, and that instead of hollering at the watchman, he’d better go and see the police inspector tomorrow and the inspector would find out who had taken the overcoat. Akaky Akakievich hurried home; he was in a terrible state. The little hair he had left, on his temples and on the back of his head, was com-

469TH E OVE RC OAT pletely disheveled, there was snow all down one side of him and on his chest and all over his trousers. His old landlady, hearing his impatient banging on the door, jumped out of bed and, with only one shoe on, ran to open up, clutching her nightgown at the neck, probably out of modesty. When she saw the state Akaky Akakievich was in, she stepped back. When he told her what had happened, she threw up her hands and said that he should go straight to the borough Police Commissioner, that the local police inspector could not be trusted, that he’d just make promises and give him the runaround. So it was best, she said, to go straight to the borough Commissioner. In fact, she even knew him because Anna, her former Finnish cook, had now got a job as a nanny at his house. And the landlady herself often saw him driving past their house. Moreover, she knew he went to church every Sunday and prayed and at the same time looked cheerful and was obviously a good man. Having heard her advice, Akaky Akakievich trudged off sadly to his room and somehow got through the night, though exactly how must be imagined by those who know how to put themselves in another man’s place. Early the next morning, he went to the borough Commissioner’s. But it turned out that he was still asleep. He returned at ten and again was told he was asleep. He went back at eleven and was told that the Commissioner was not home. He tried again during the dinner hour but the secretaries in the reception room would not let him in and wanted to know what business had brought him. For once in his life Akaky Akakievich decided to show some character and told them curtly that he must see the Commissioner personally, that they’d better let him in since he was on official government business, that he would lodge a complaint against them and that then they would see. The secretaries didn’t dare say anything to that and one of them went to call the Commissioner. The Commissioner reacted very strangely to Akaky Akakievich’s story of the robbery. Instead of concentrating on the main point, he asked Akaky Akakievich what he had been doing out so late, whether he had stopped off somewhere on his way, hadn’t he been to a house of ill repute. Akaky Akakievich became very confused and when he left he wasn’t sure whether something would be done about his overcoat or not. That day he did not go to his office for the first time in his life. The next day he appeared, looking very pale and wearing his old dressing gown, which now seemed shabbier than ever. His account of the theft of his overcoat touched many of the clerks, although, even now, there were some who poked fun at him. They decided on the spot to take up a collec-

470 Nikolai Gogol tion for him but they collected next to nothing because the department employees had already had to donate money for a portrait of the Director and to subscribe to some book or other, on the suggestion of the section chief, who was a friend of the author’s. So the sum turned out to be the merest trifle. Someone, moved by compassion, decided to help Akaky Akakievich by giving him good advice. He told him that he had better not go to his local inspector because, even supposing the inspector wanted to impress his superiors and managed to recover the coat, Akaky Akakievich would still find it difficult to obtain it at the police station unless he could present irrefutable proof of ownership. The best thing was to go through a certain important personage who, by writing and contacting the right people, would set things moving faster. So Akaky Akakievich decided to seek an audience with the important personage. Even to this day, it is not known exactly what position the important personage held or what his duties consisted of. All we need to know is that this important personage had become important quite recently and that formerly he had been an unimportant person. And even his present position was unimportant compared with other, more important ones. But there is always a category of people for whom somebody who is unimportant to others is an important personage. And the personage in question used various devices to play up his importance: for instance, he made the civil servants of lower categories come out to meet him on the stairs before he’d even reached his office; and a subordinate could not approach him directly but had to go through proper channels. That’s the way things are in Holy Russia—everyone tries to ape his superior. They say that one ninth-class clerk, when he was named section chief in a small office, immediately had a partition put up to make a separate room, which he called the conference room. He stationed an usher at the door who had to open it for all those who came in, although the conference room had hardly enough space for a writing table, even without visitors. The audiences and the manner of our important personage were impressive and stately, but quite uncomplicated. The key to his system was severity. He liked to say: “Severity, severity, severity,” and as he uttered the word for the third time, he usually looked very meaningfully into the face of the person he was talking to. True, it was not too clear what need there was for all this severity since the ten-odd employees who made up the whole administrative apparatus of his office were quite frightened enough as it was. Seeing him coming, they would leave their work and stand to attention until he had crossed the room. His usual communica-

471TH E OVE RC OAT tion with his inferiors was full of severity and consisted almost entirely of three phrases: “How dare you!” “Who do you think you’re talking to?” and “Do you appreciate who I am?” Actually, he was a kindly man, a good friend and obliging, but promotion to a high rank had gone to his head, knocked him completely off balance, and he just didn’t know how to act. When he happened to be with equals, he was still a decent fellow, and, in a way, by no means stupid. But whenever he found himself among those who were below him—even a single rank—he became impossible. He fell silent and was quite pitiable, because even he himself realized that he could have been having a much better time. Sometimes he was obviously longing to join some group in a lively conversation, but he would be stopped by the thought that he would be going too far, putting himself on familiar terms and thereby losing face. And so he remained eternally in silent, aloof isolation, only occasionally uttering some monosyllabic sounds, and, as a result, he acquired a reputation as a deadly bore. It was to this important personage that Akaky Akakievich presented himself, and at a most unpropitious moment to boot. That is, very unpropitious for him, although quite suitable for the important personage. The latter was in his office talking gaily to a childhood friend who had recently come to Petersburg and whom he hadn’t seen for many years. This was the moment when they announced that there was a man named Shoenik to see him. “Who’s he?” the personage wanted to know. “Some clerk,” they told him. “I see. Let him wait. I am not available now.” Here it should be noted that the important personage was greatly exaggerating. He was available. He and his friend had talked over everything imaginable. For some time now the conversation had been interlaced with lengthy silences, and they weren’t doing much more than slapping each other on the thigh and saying: “So that’s how it is, Ivan Abramovich.” “Yes, indeed, Stepan Varlamovich!” Still Akaky Akakievich had to wait, so that his friend, who had left the government service long ago and now lived in the country, could see what a long time employees had to wait in his reception room. At last, when they had talked and had sat silent facing each other for as long as they could stand it, when they had smoked a cigar reclining in comfortable armchairs with sloping backs, the important personage, as if he had just recalled it, said to his secretary who was standing at the door with papers for a report:

472 Nikolai Gogol “Wait a minute. Wasn’t there a clerk waiting? Tell him to come in.” Seeing Akaky Akakievich’s humble appearance and his wretched old frock coat, he turned abruptly to face him and said. “What do you want?” He spoke in the hard, sharp voice which he had deliberately developed by practicing at home before a mirror an entire week before he had taken over his present exalted position. Akaky Akakievich, who had felt properly subdued even before this, felt decidedly embarrassed. He did his best, as far as he could control his tongue, to explain what had happened. Of course, he added even more than his usual share of phrases like “that is to say” and “so to speak.” The overcoat, he explained, was completely new and had been cruelly taken away from him and he had turned to the important personage, that is to say, come to him, in the hope that he would, so to speak, intercede for him somehow, that is to say, write to the Superintendent of Police or, so to speak, to someone, and find the overcoat. For some unimaginable reason the important personage found his manner too familiar. “My dear sir,” he answered sharply, “don’t you know the proper channels? Do you realize whom you’re addressing and what the proper procedure should be? You should first have handed in a petition to the office. It would have gone to the head clerk. From him it would have reached the section head, who would have approached my secretary and only then would the secretary have presented it to me. . . .” “But, Your Excellency,” said Akaky Akakievich, trying to gather what little composure he had and feeling at the same time that he was sweating terribly, “I, Your Excellency, ventured to trouble you because secretaries, that is to say . . . are, so to speak, an unreliable lot. . . .” “What, what, what?” demanded the important personage. “Where did you pick up such an attitude? Where did you get such ideas? What is this insubordination that is spreading among young people against their chiefs and superiors?” The important personage, apparently, had not noticed that Akaky Akakievich was well over fifty. Thus, surely, if he could be called young at all it would only be relatively, that is, to someone of seventy. “Do you realize to whom you are talking? Do you appreciate who I am? Do you really realize, do you, I’m asking you?” Here he stamped his foot and raised his voice to such a pitch that there was no need to be an Akaky Akakievich to be frightened. And Akaky Akakievich froze completely. He staggered, his whole body shook, and he was quite unable to keep his feet. If a messenger hadn’t

473TH E OVE RC OAT rushed over and supported him, he would have collapsed onto the floor. They carried him out almost unconscious. And the important personage, pleased to see that his dramatic effect had exceeded his expectations, and completely delighted with the idea that a word from him could knock a man unconscious, glanced at his friend to see what he thought of it all and was pleased to see that the friend looked somewhat at a loss and that fear had extended to him too. Akaky Akakievich remembered nothing about getting downstairs and out into the street. He could feel neither hand nor foot. In all his life he had never been so severely reprimanded by a high official, and not a direct chief of his at that. He walked openmouthed through a blizzard, again and again stumbling off the sidewalk. The wind, according to Petersburg custom, blew at him from all four sides at once, out of every side street. In no time it had blown him a sore throat and he got himself home at last quite unable to say a word. His throat was swollen and he went straight to bed. That’s how severe the effects of an adequate reprimand can be. The next day he was found to have a high fever. Thanks to the generous assistance of the Petersburg climate, the illness progressed beyond all expectations. A doctor came, felt his pulse, found there was nothing he could do and prescribed a poultice. That was done so that the patient would not be deprived of the beneficial aid of medicine. The doctor added, however, that, by the way, the patient had another day and a half to go, after which he would be what is called kaput. Then, turning to the landlady, the doctor said: “And you, my good woman, I’d not waste my time if I were you. I’d order him the coffin right away. A pine one. The oak ones, I imagine, would be too expensive for him.” Whether Akaky Akakievich heard what for him were fateful words, and, if he heard, whether they had a shattering effect on him and whether he was sorry to lose his wretched life are matters of conjecture. He was feverish and delirious the whole time. Apparitions, each stranger than the last, kept crowding before him. He saw Petrovich and ordered an overcoat containing some sort of concealed traps to catch the thieves who were hiding under his bed, so that every minute he kept calling his landlady to come and pull out the one who had even slipped under his blanket. Next, he would ask whv his old dressing gown was hanging there in front of him when he had a new overcoat. Then he would find himself

474 Nikolai Gogol standing before the important personage, listening to the reprimand and repeating over and over: “I am sorry, Your Excellency, I am sorry.” Then he began to swear, using the most frightful words, which caused his old landlady to cross herself in horror; never in her life had she heard anything like it from him, and what made it even worse was that they came pouring out on the heels of the phrase, “Your Excellency.” After that he talked complete nonsense and it was impossible to make out anything he was saying, except that his disconnected words kept groping for that lost overcoat of his. Then, at last, poor Akaky Akakievich gave up the ghost. They did not bother to seal his room or his belongings because there were no heirs and, moreover, very little to inherit—namely, a bundle of goose quills, a quire of white government paper, three pairs of socks, a few buttons that had come off his trousers, and the old dressing-gown coat already mentioned. God knows whom they went to; even the reporter of this story did not care enough to find out. They took Akaky Akakievich away and buried him. And Petersburg went on without him exactly as if he had never existed. A creature had vanished, disappeared. He had had no one to protect him. No one had ever paid him the slightest attention. Not even that which a naturalist pays to a common fly which he mounts on a pin and looks at through his microscope. True, this creature, who had meekly borne the office jokes and gone quietly to his grave, had had, toward the end of his life, a cherished visitor—the overcoat, which for a brief moment had brightened his wretched existence. Then a crushing blow had finished everything, a blow such as befalls the powerful of the earth. . . . A few days after his death, a messenger from his office was sent to his lodgings with an order summoning him to report immediately; the chief was asking for him. But the messenger had to return alone and to report that Akaky Akakievich could not come. “Why not?” he was asked. “Because,” the messenger said, “he died. They buried him four days ago.” That is how the department found out about Akaky Akakievich’s death, and the next day a new clerk sat in his place: he was much taller and his handwriting was not as straight. In fact, his letters slanted considerably. But who would have imagined that that was not the end of Akaky Akakievich, that he was fated to live on and make his presence felt for a few days after his death as if in compensation for having spent his life unnoticed by anyone? But that’s the way it happened and our little story

475TH E OVE RC OAT gains an unexpectedly fantastic ending. Rumors suddenly started to fly around Petersburg that a ghost was haunting the streets at night in the vicinity of the Kalinkin Bridge. The ghost, which looked like a little clerk, was purportedly searching for a stolen overcoat and used this pretext to pull the coats off the shoulders of everyone he met without regard for rank or title. And it made no difference what kind of coat it was—cat, beaver, fox, bearskin, in fact any of the furs and skins people have thought up to cover their own skins with. One of the department employees saw the ghost with his own eyes and instantly recognized Akaky Akakievich. However, he was so terrified that he dashed off as fast as his legs would carry him and so didn’t get a good look; he only saw from a distance that the ghost was shaking his finger at him. Complaints kept pouring in, and not only from petty employees, which would have been understandable. One and all, even Privy Councilors, were catching chills in their backs and shoulders from having their overcoats peeled off. The police were ordered to catch the ghost at any cost, dead or alive, and to punish him with due severity as a warning to others. And what’s more, they nearly succeeded. To be precise, a watchman caught the ghost red-handed, grabbed it by the collar, in Kiryushkin Alley, as it was trying to pull the coat off a retired musician who, in his day, used to tootle on the flute. Grabbing it, he called for help from two colleagues of his and asked them to hold on to it for just a minute. He had, he said, to get his snuffbox out of his boot so that he could bring some feeling back to his nose, which had been frostbitten six times in his life. But it was evidently snuff that even a ghost couldn’t stand. The man, closing his right nostril with his finger, had hardly sniffed up half a fistful into the left when the ghost sneezed so violently that the three watchmen were blinded by the resulting shower. They all raised their fists to wipe their eyes and, when they could see again, the ghost had vanished. They even wondered whether they had really held him at all. After that, watchmen were so afraid of the ghost that they felt reluctant to interfere with live robbers and contented themselves with shouting from a distance: “Hey you! On your way!” And the clerk’s ghost began to haunt the streets well beyond the Kalinkin Bridge, spreading terror among the meek. However, we have completely neglected the important personage, who really, in a sense, was the cause of the fantastic direction that this story— which, by the way, is completely true—has taken. First of all, it is only fair to say that, shortly after poor Akaky Akakievich, reduced to a pulp, had left his office, the important personage felt a twinge of regret. Com-

476 Nikolai Gogol passion was not foreign to him—many good impulses stirred his heart, although his position usually prevented them from coming to the surface. As soon as his visiting friend had left the office, his thoughts returned to Akaky Akakievich. And after that, almost every day, he saw in his mind’s eye the bloodless face of the little clerk who had been unable to take a proper reprimand. This thought was so disturbing that a week later he went so far as to send a clerk from his office to see how Akaky Akakievich was doing and to find out whether, in fact, there was any way to help him. And when he heard the news that Akaky Akakievich had died suddenly of a fever, it was almost a blow to him, even made him feel guilty and spoiled his mood for the whole day. Trying to rid himself of these thoughts, to forget the whole unpleasant business, he went to a party at a friend’s house. There he found himself in respectable company and, what’s more, among people nearly all of whom were of the same standing so that there was absolutely nothing to oppress him. A great change came over him. He let himself go, chatted pleasantly, was amiable, in a word, spent a very pleasant evening. At supper, he drank a couple of glasses of champagne, a well-recommended prescription for inducing good spirits. The champagne gave him an inclination for something special and so he decided not to go home but instead to pay a little visit to a certain well- known lady named Karolina Ivanovna, a lady, it seems, of German extraction, toward whom he felt very friendly. It should be said that the important personage was no longer a young man, that he was a good husband, the respected father of a family. His two sons, one of whom already had a civil-service post, and his sweet-faced sixteen-year-old daughter, who had a slightly hooked but nevertheless pretty little nose, greeted him every day with a “Bon jour, Papa.” His wife, a youngish woman and not unattractive at that, gave him her hand to kiss and then kissed his. But although the important personage was quite content with these displays of family family affection, he considered it the proper thing to do to have, for friendship’s sake, a lady friend in another part of the city. This lady friend was not a bit prettier or younger than his wife, but the world is full of such puzzling things and it is not our business to judge them. So the important personage came down the steps, stepped into his sledge, and said to the coachman: “To Karolina Ivanovna’s.” Wrapping his warm luxurious fur coat around him, he sat back in his seat. He was in that state so cherished by Russians, in which, without your

477TH E OVE RC OAT having to make any effort, thoughts, each one pleasanter than the last, slip into your head by themselves. Perfectly content, he went over all the most pleasant moments at the party, over the clever retorts that had caused that select gathering to laugh. He even repeated many of them under his breath and, still finding them funny, laughed heartily at them all over again, which was natural enough. However, he kept being bothered by gusts of wind which would suddenly blow, God knows from where or for what reason, cutting his face, throwing lumps of snow into it, filling the cape of his coat like a sail and throwing it over his head, so that he had to extricate himself from it again and again. Suddenly the important personage felt someone grab him violently from behind. He turned around and saw a small man in a worn-out frock coat. Terrified, he recognized Akaky Akakievich, his face as white as the snow and looking altogether very ghostly indeed. Fear took over completely when the important personage saw the ghost’s mouth twist and, sending a whiff of the grave into his face, utter the following words: “I’ve caught you at last. I’ve got you by the collar now! It’s the coat I need. You did nothing about mine and hollered at me to boot. Now I’ll take yours!” The poor important personage almost died. He may have displayed force of character in the office and, in general, toward his inferiors, so that after one glance at his strong face and manly figure, people would say: “Quite a man,” but now, like many other mighty-looking people, he was so frightened that he began to think, and not without reason, that he was about to have an attack of something or other. He was even very helpful in peeling off his coat, after which he shouted to the coachman in a ferocious tone: “Home! As fast as you can!” The coachman, hearing the ferocious tone which the important personage used in critical moments and which was sometimes accompanied with something even more drastic, instinctively ducked his head and cracked his whip, so that they tore away like a streak. In a little over six minutes the important personage was in front of his house. Instead of being at Karolina Ivanovna’s, he was somehow staggering to his room, pale, terrified, and coatless. There he spent such a restless night that the next morning, at breakfast, his daughter said: “You look terribly pale this morning, Papa.” But Papa was silent, and he didn’t say a word to anyone about what

478 Nikolai Gogol had happened to him, or where he had been or where he had intended to go. This incident made a deep impression upon him. From then on his subordinates heard far less often: “How dare you!” and “Do you know whom you’re talking to?” And even when he did use these expressions it was after listening to what others had to say. But even more remarkable—after that night, Akaky Akakievich’s ghost was never seen again. The important personage’s overcoat must have fitted him snugly. At any rate, one no longer heard of coats being torn from people’s shoulders. However, many busybodies wouldn’t let the matter rest there and maintained that the ghost was still haunting certain distant parts of the city. And, sure enough, a watchman in the Kolomna district caught a glimpse of the ghost behind a house. But he was rather a frail watchman. (Once an ordinary, but mature, piglet, rushing out of a private house, knocked him off his feet to the huge delight of a bunch of cabbies, whom he fined two kopeks each for their lack of respect— then he spent the proceeds on tobacco.) So, being rather frail, the watchman didn’t dare to arrest the ghost. Instead he followed it in the darkness until at last it stopped suddenly, turned to face him, and asked: “You looking for trouble?” And it shook a huge fist at him, much larger than any you’ll find among the living. ‘“No,” the watchman said, turning away. This ghost, however, was a much taller one and wore an enormous mustache. It walked off, it seems, in the direction of the Obukhov Bridge and soon dissolved into the gloom of night. Translated by Andrew R. MacAndrew.

479 Samuel Butler 1835–1902 Samuel Butler (not to be mistaken for the seventeenth-century authorof the same name who wrote Hudibras) was born in Nottinghamshire, England, December 4, 1835. He attended St. John’s College, Cambridge. His clergyman father had intended him for the ministry. Young Butler would have none of it. In 1859 he emigrated to New Zealand and set up a sheep run on the south island. Like so many of his contemporaries, he read Darwin’s Origin of Species with an effect of dazzling revelation. In five years he doubled his investment and sailed back to London. He tried painting and later composing music. His paintings were shown at the Royal Academy and his music was published. He wrote an anonymous book, Evidence for the Resurrection of Jesus Christ, in 1865. Seven years later, Erewhon (see below) gave him a first modest reputation. His more famous book, The Way of All Flesh, did not appear until a year after his death. An ironic argument for Christianity, The Fair Haven, was published in 1873. In three books on evolution, the last in 1887, Butler suggested that changes in species might be accounted for by the organism’s response to felt needs. His term, “the Life Force,” was later exploited by George Bernard Shaw. Butler, who was a devoted mountaineer, wrote an engaging book about Italian Switzerland. He translated the Iliad and the Odyssey. This interest in the Greek world led to his theory that the Odyssey had been written by a woman. Butler’s Notebooks—only a selection has been published—belong among the most fascinating of his works. He spent the better part of twelve years writing The Way of All Flesh, his massive condemnation of English family life. He died in London on June 18, 1902.

480 Samuel Butler We read four chapters from the fantasy Erewhon (pronounced er-uh-whon, an anagram for nowhere). It is nowhere indeed. Higgs, a big, blond Englishman, tells the story. Beyond the raw peaks and chasms of the mountain range, past the terrifying “circle of gigantic forms” like the stone statues on Easter Island, he looks down into the unheard-of country of Erewhon. It is the familiar entry into every Promised Land from the Hebrew Canaan to Daniel Boone’s Kentucky. But is Erewhon a Promised Land? Not quite. In the four centuries between Sir Thomas More’s Utopia and George Orwell’s 1984, the Utopian society has changed from heaven to something like hell, from the country that “ought to be” to the country that we hope will never be. In character and time, Erewhon lies somewhere between. It comes to us much later than Sir Francis Bacon’s New Atlantis or Gulliver’s Travels but earlier than Edward Bellamy’s Looking Backward or Aldous Huxley’s Brave New World. When Higgs goes down into Erewhon, he is put in prison at first and then taken in as the guest of one of the country’s richest men, Mr. Nosnibor—that is, Robinson spelled backwards. Everything else appears to be backwards too. We meet the narrator just as he is beginning to understand the laws and customs of the country. One of the first things he finds out is that in Erewhon illness is treated as a crime or misdemeanor, according to its severity, whereas crime is regarded as an illness. Thus it is the worst of bad form to say, “How do you do?” With Higgs we witness the trial of a man accused of chronic tuberculosis. He is sentenced to hard labor for life. Higgs, dismayed at first, comes round to the view that this is after all only an extreme example of the way unfortunate people are treated in his own country. Here we have a characteristic demonstration of the author’s satiric method. Butler’s method makes for an especially rich kind of Notes from the artist: “. . . sketches of three influences on Butler— Darwin, Handel, and Butler’s father—are pictured above the portrait. The scene of the family at prayer is taken from a painting by Butler. His signature and his comments about his painting are printed backwards, after the fashion of Erewhon.”

482 Samuel Butler compound satire. It reflects our own experience. In it nothing is altogether “wrong” or “right.” It is unfavorable to bold moral stands, but it allows Butler to show us the pros and cons on every side of a question. We are given, not the advocate’s view, but a fairly rounded and complete one. In the Erewhonian order of things, our own attitudes toward crime and illness have been transposed. We feel that there is something monstrous about the outlawing of physicians and the criminal prosecution of the sick. So, too, we may come to associate crime with sickness, and ask ourselves whether it is not sickness of another sort. Thus we are prepared for the lawbreaker who regards himself as a patient to be treated by the “straightener”—that uncanny anticipation of the present-day psychiatrist.

483 Customs and Opinions of the Erewhonians from Erewhon CURRENT OPINIONS his is what I gathered. That in that country if a man falls into ill health, or catches any disorder, or fails bodily in any way before he is seventy years old, he is tried before a jury of his countrymen, and if convicted is held up to public scorn and sentenced more or less severely as the case may be. There are subdivisions of illnesses into crimes and misdemeanours as with offences amongst ourselves—a man being punished very heavily for serious illness, while failure of eyes or hearing in one over sixty-five who has had good health hitherto is dealt with by fine only, or imprisonment in default of payment. But if a man forges a check, or sets his house on fire, or robs with violence from the person, or does any other such things as are criminal in our own country, he is either taken to a hospital and most carefully tended at the public expense, or if he is in good circumstances, he lets it be known to all his friends that he is suffering from a severe fit of immorality, just as we do when we are ill, and they come and visit him with great solicitude, and inquire with interest how it all came about, what symptoms first showed themselves, and so forth—questions which he will answer with perfect unreserve; for bad conduct, though considered no less deplorable than illness with ourselves, and as unquestionably indicating something seriously wrong with the individual who misbehaves, is nevertheless held to be the result of either prenatal or postnatal misfortune. The strange part of the story, however, is that though they ascribe moral defects to the effect of misfortune either in character or surround- ings, they will not listen to the plea of misfortune in cases that in England

484 Samuel Butler meet with sympathy and commiseration only. Ill luck of any kind, or even ill treatment at the hands of others, is considered an offence against society, inasmuch as it makes people uncomfortable to hear of it. Loss of fortune, therefore, or loss of some dear friend on whom another was much dependent, is punished hardly less severely than physical delinquency. Foreign, indeed, as such ideas are to our own, traces of somewhat similar opinions can be found even in nineteenth-century England. If a person has an abscess, the medical man will say that it contains “peccant” matter, and people say that they have a “bad” arm or finger, or that they are very “bad” all over, when they only mean “diseased.” Among foreign nations Erewhonian opinions may be still more clearly noted. The Mohammedans, for example, to this day, send their female prisoners to hospitals, and the New Zealand Maoris visit any misfortune with forcible entry into the house of the offender, and the breaking up and burning of all his goods. The Italians, again, use the same word for “disgrace” and “misfortune.” I once heard an Italian lady speak of a young friend whom she described as endowed with every virtue under heaven: “Ma,” she exclaimed, “povero disgraziato, ha ammazzato suo zio.” (“Poor unfortunate fellow, he has murdered his uncle.”) On mentioning this, which I heard when taken to Italy as a boy by my father, the person to whom I told it showed no surprise. He said that he had been driven for two or three years in a certain city by a young Sicilian cab-driver of prepossessing manners and appearance, but then lost sight of him. On asking what had become of him, he was told that he was in prison for having shot at his father with intent to kill him— happily without serious results. Some years later my informant again found himself warmly accosted by the prepossessing young cab-driver. “Ah, caro signore,” he exclaimed, “sono cinque anni che non lo vedo— tre anni di militare, e due anni di disgrazia,” etc. (“My dear sir, it is five years since I saw you—three years of military service, and two of misfortune”)—during which last the poor fellow had been in prison. Of moral sense he showed not so much as a trace. He and his father were now on excellent terms, and were likely to remain so unless either of them should again have the misfortune mortally to offend the other. In the following chapter I will give a few examples of the way in which what we should call misfortune, hardship, or disease are dealt with by the Erewhonians, but for the moment will return to their treatment of cases that with us are criminal. As I have already said, these, though not judicially punishable, are recognized as requiring correction.

485CU STOM S AN D OP I N ION S OF TH E E REWHON IAN S Accordingly, there exists a class of men trained in soul craft, whom they call straighteners, as nearly as I can translate a word which literally means “one who bends back the crooked.” These men practise much as medical men in England, and receive a quasi-surreptitious fee on every visit. They are treated with the same unreserve, and obeyed as readily, as our own doctors—that is to say, on the whole sufficiently—because people know that it is their interest to get well as soon as they can, and that they will not be scouted as they would be if their bodies were out of order, even though they may have to undergo a very painful course of treatment. When I say that they will not be scouted, I do not mean that an Erewhonian will suffer no social inconvenience in consequence, we will say, of having committed fraud. Friends will fall away from him because of his being less pleasant company, just as we ourselves are disinclined to make companions of those who are either poor or poorly. No one with any sense of self-respect will place himself on an equality in the matter of affection with those who are less lucky than himself in birth, health, money, good looks, capacity, or anything else. Indeed, that dislike and even disgust should be felt by the fortunate for the unfortunate, or at any rate for those who have been discovered to have met with any of the more serious and less familiar misfortunes, is not only natural, but desirable for any society, whether of man or brute. The fact, therefore, that the Erewhonians attach none of the guilt to crime which they do to physical ailments does not prevent the more selfish among them from neglecting a friend who has robbed a bank, for instance, till he has fully recovered; but it does prevent them from even thinking of treating criminals with that contemptuous tone which would seem to say, “I, if I were you, should be a better man than you are,” a tone which is held quite reasonable in regard to physical ailment. Hence, though they conceal ill health by every cunning and hypocrisy and artifice which they can devise, they are quite open about the most flagrant mental diseases, should they happen to exist, which to do the people justice is not often. Indeed, there are some who are, so to speak, spiritual valetudinarians, and who make themselves exceedingly ridiculous by their nervous supposition that they are wicked, while they are very tolerable people all the time. This however is exceptional; and on the whole they use much the same reserve or unreserve about the state of their moral welfare as we do about our health. Hence all the ordinary greetings among ourselves, such as, “How do you do?” and the like, are considered signs of gross ill breeding; nor do

486 Samuel Butler the politer classes tolerate even such a common complimentary remark as telling a man that he is looking well. They salute each other with, “I hope you are good this morning”; or “I hope you have recovered from the snappishness from which you were suffering when I last saw you”; and if the person saluted has not been good, or is still snappish, he says so at once and is condoled with accordingly. Indeed, the straighteners have gone so far as to give names from the hypothetical language (as taught at the Colleges of Unreason) to all known forms of mental indisposition, and to classify them according to a system of their own, which, though I could not understand it, seemed to work well in practice; for they are always able to tell a man what is the matter with him as soon as they have heard his story, and their familiarity with the long names assures him that they thoroughly understand his case. The reader will have no difficulty in believing that the laws regarding ill health were frequently evaded by the help of recognized fictions, which every one understood, but which it would be considered gross ill breeding to even seem to understand. Thus, a day or two after my arrival at the Nosnibors’, one of the many ladies who called on me made excuses for her husband’s only sending his card, on the ground that when going through the public market-place that morning he had stolen a pair of socks. I had already been warned that I should never show surprise, so I merely expressed my sympathy, and said that though I had only been in the capital so short a time, I had already had a very narrow escape from stealing a clothes-brush, and that though I had resisted temptation so far, I was sadly afraid that if I saw any object of special interest that was neither too hot nor too heavy, I should have to put myself in the straightener’s hands. Mrs. Nosnibor, who had been keeping an ear on all that I had been saying, praised me when the lady had gone. Nothing, she said, could have been more polite according to Erewhonian etiquette. She then explained that to have stolen a pair of socks, or “to have the socks” (in more colloquial language), was a recognized way of saying that the person in question was slightly indisposed. In spite of all this they have a keen sense of the enjoyment consequent upon what they call being “well.” They admire mental health and love it in other people, and take all the pains they can (consistently with their other duties) to secure it for themselves. They have an extreme dislike to marrying into what they consider unhealthy families. They send for the straightener at once whenever they have been guilty of anything seriously

487CU STOM S AN D OP I N ION S OF TH E E REWHON IAN S flagitious—often even if they think that they are on the point of committing it; and though his remedies are sometimes exceedingly painful, involving close confinement for weeks, and in some cases the most cruel physical tortures, I never heard of a reasonable Erewhonian refusing to do what his straightener told him, any more than of a reasonable Englishman refusing to undergo even the most frightful operation, if his doctors told him it was necessary. We in England never shrink from telling our doctor what is the matter with us merely through the fear that he will hurt us. We let him do his worst upon us, and stand it without a murmur, because we are not scouted for being ill, and because we know that the doctor is doing his best to cure us, and that he can judge of our case better than we can; but we should conceal all illness if we were treated as the Erewhonians are when they have anything the matter with them; we should do the same as with moral and intellectual diseases—we should feign health with the most consummate art, till we were found out, and should hate a single flogging given in the way of mere punishment more than the amputation of a limb, if it were kindly and courteously performed from a wish to help us out of our difficulty, and with the full consciousness on the part of the doctor that it was only by an accident of constitution that he was not in the like plight himself. So the Erewhonians take a flogging once a week, and a diet of bread and water for two or three months together, whenever their straightener recommends it. I do not suppose that even my host, on having swindled a confiding widow out of the whole of her property, was put to more actual suffering than a man will readily undergo at the hands of an English doctor. And yet he must have had a very bad time of it. The sounds I heard were sufficient to show that his pain was exquisite, but he never shrank from undergoing it. He was quite sure that it did him good; and I think he was right. I cannot believe that that man will ever embezzle money again. He may—but it will be a long time before he does so. During my confinement in prison, and on my journey, I had already discovered a great deal of the above; but it still seemed surpassingly strange, and I was in constant fear of committing some piece of rudeness, through my inability to look at things from the same standpoint as my neighbours; but after a few weeks’ stay with the Nosnibors, I got to understand things better, especially on having heard all about my host’s illness, of which he told me fully and repeatedly. It seemed that he had been on the Stock Exchange of the city for many

488 Samuel Butler years and had amassed enormous wealth, without exceeding the limits of what was generally considered justifiable or, at any rate, permissible dealing; but at length on several occasions he had become aware of a desire to make money by fraudulent representations, and had actually dealt with two or three sums in a way which had made him rather uncomfortable. He had unfortunately made light of it and pooh-poohed the ailment, until circumstances eventually presented themselves which enabled him to cheat upon a very considerable scale;—he told me what they were, and they were about as bad as anything could be, but I need not detail them;—he seized the opportunity, and became aware, when it was too late, that he must be seriously out of order. He had neglected himself too long. He drove home at once, broke the news to his wife and daughters as gently as he could, and sent off for one of the most celebrated straighteners of the kingdom to a consultation with the family practitioner, for the case was plainly serious. On the arrival of the straightener he told his story, and expressed his fear that his morals must be permanently impaired. The eminent man reassured him with a few cheering words, and then proceeded to make a more careful diagnosis of the case. He inquired concerning Mr. Nosnibor’s parents—had their moral health been good? He was answered that there had not been anything seriously amiss with them, but that his maternal grandfather, whom he was supposed to resemble somewhat in person, had been a consummate scoundrel and had ended his days in a hospital, while a brother of his father’s, after having led a most flagitious life for many years, had been at last cured by a philosopher of a new school, which as far as I could understand it bore much the same relation to the old as homoeopathy to allopathy. The straightener shook his head at this, and laughingly replied that the cure must have been due to nature. After a few more questions he wrote a prescription and departed. I saw the prescription. It ordered a fine to the state of double the money embezzled, no food but bread and milk for six months, and a severe flogging once a month for twelve. I was surprised to see that no part of the fine was to be paid to the poor woman whose money had been embezzled, but on inquiry I learned that she would have been prosecuted in the Misplaced Confidence Court, if she had not escaped its clutches by dying shortly after she had discovered her loss. As for Mr. Nosnibor, he had received his eleventh flogging on the day of my arrival. I saw him later on the same afternoon, and he was still

489CU STOM S AN D OP I N ION S OF TH E E REWHON IAN S twinged; but there had been no escape from following out the straightener’s prescription, for the so-called sanitary laws of Erewhon are very rigorous, and unless the straightener was satisfied that his orders had been obeyed, the patient would have been taken to a hospital (as the poor are), and would have been much worse off. Such at least is the law, but it is never necessary to enforce it. On a subsequent occasion I was present at an interview between Mr. Nosnibor and the family straightener, who was considered competent to watch the completion of the cure. I was struck with the delicacy with which he avoided even the remotest semblance of inquiry after the physical well-being of his patient, though there was a certain yellowness about my host’s eyes which argued a bilious habit of body. To have taken notice of this would have been a gross breach of professional etiquette. I was told, however, that a straightener sometimes thinks it right to glance at the possibility of some slight physical disorder if he finds it important in order to assist him in his diagnosis; but the answers which he gets are generally untrue or evasive, and he forms his own conclusions upon the matter as well as he can. Sensible men have been known to say that the straightener should in strict confidence be told of every physical ailment that is likely to bear upon the case; but people are naturally shy of doing this, for they do not like lowering themselves in the opinion of the straightener, and his ignorance of medical science is supreme. I heard of one lady, indeed, who had the hardihood to confess that a furious outbreak of ill humour and extravagant fancies for which she was seeking advice was possibly the result of indisposition. “You should resist that,” said the straightener, in a kind, but grave voice; “we can do nothing for the bodies of our patients; such matters are beyond our province, and I desire that I may hear no further particulars.” The lady burst into tears, and promised faithfully that she would never be unwell again. But to return to Mr. Nosnibor. As the afternoon wore on many carriages drove up with callers to inquire how he had stood his flogging. It had been very severe, but the kind inquiries upon every side gave him great pleasure, and he assured me that he felt almost tempted to do wrong again by the solicitude with which his friends had treated him during his recovery: in this I need hardly say that he was not serious. During the remainder of my stay in the country Mr. Nosnibor was constantly attentive to his business, and largely increased his already great possessions; but I never heard a whisper to the effect of his having been indisposed a second time, or made money by other than the most strictly honourable means. I did hear afterwards in confidence that there

490 Samuel Butler had been reason to believe that his health had been not a little affected by the straightener’s treatment, but his friends did not choose to be over- curious upon the subject, and on his return to his affairs it was by common consent passed over as hardly criminal in one who was otherwise so much afflicted. For they regard bodily ailments as the more venial in proportion as they have been produced by causes independent of the constitution. Thus if a person ruin his health by excessive indulgence at the table or by drinking, they count it to be almost a part of the mental disease which brought it about, and so it goes for little, but they have no mercy on such illnesses as fevers or catarrhs or lung diseases, which to us appear to be beyond the control of the individual. They are only more lenient towards the diseases of the young—such as measles, which they think to be like sowing one’s wild oats—and look over them as pardonable indiscretions if they have not been too serious, and if they are atoned for by complete subsequent recovery. It is hardly necessary to say that the office of straightener is one which requires long and special training. It stands to reason that he who would cure a moral ailment must be practically acquainted with it in all its bearings. The student for the profession of straightener is required to set apart certain seasons for the practice of each vice in turn, as a religious duty. These seasons are called “fasts,” and are continued by the student until he finds that he really can subdue all the more usual vices in his own person, and hence can advise his patients from the results of his own experience. Those who intend to be specialists, rather than general practitioners, devote themselves more particularly to the branch in which their practice will mainly lie. Some students have been obliged to continue their exercises during their whole lives, and some devoted men have actually died as martyrs to the drink, or gluttony, or whatever branch of vice they may have chosen for their especial study. The greater number, however, take no harm by the excursions into the various departments of vice which it is incumbent upon them to study. For the Erewhonians hold that unalloyed virtue is not a thing to be immoderately indulged in. I was shown more than one case in which the real or supposed virtues of parents were visited upon the children to the third and fourth generation. The straighteners say that the most that can be truly said for virtue is that there is a considerable balance in its favour, and that it is on the whole a good deal better to be on its side than against it; but they urge that there is much pseudo-virtue going about, which is apt to let people in very badly before they find it out. Those men, they say, are best who are not remarkable either for vice or virtue. I told

491CU STOM S AN D OP I N ION S OF TH E E REWHON IAN S them about Hogarth’s idle and industrious apprentices, but they did not seem to think that the industrious apprentice was a very nice person. SOME EREWHONIAN TRIALS In Erewhon as in other countries there are some courts of justice that deal with special subjects. Misfortune generally, as I have above explained, is considered more or less criminal, but it admits of classification, and a court is assigned to each of the main heads under which it can be supposed to fall. Not very long after I had reached the capital I strolled into the Personal Bereavement Court, and was much both interested and pained by listening to the trial of a man who was accused of having just lost a wife to whom he had been tenderly attached, and who had left him with three little children, of whom the eldest was only three years old. The defence which the prisoner’s counsel endeavoured to establish was that the prisoner had never really loved his wife; but it broke down completely, for the public prosecutor called witness after witness who deposed to the fact that the couple had been devoted to one another, and the prisoner repeatedly wept as incidents were put in evidence that reminded him of the irreparable nature of the loss he had sustained. The jury returned a verdict of guilty after very little deliberation, but recommended the prisoner to mercy on the ground that he had but recently insured his wife’s life for a considerable sum, and might be deemed lucky inasmuch as he had received the money without demur from the insurance company, though he had only paid two premiums. I have just said that the jury found the prisoner guilty. When the judge passed sentence, I was struck with the way in which the prisoner’s counsel was rebuked for having referred to a work in which the guilt of such misfortunes as the prisoner’s was extenuated to a degree that roused the indignation of the court. “We shall have,” said the judge, “these crude and subversionary books from time to time until it is recognized as an axiom of morality that luck is the only fit object of human veneration. How far a man has any right to be more lucky and hence more venerable than his neighbours is a point that always has been, and always will be, settled proximately by a kind of higgling and haggling of the market, and ultimately by brute force; but however this may be, it stands to reason that no man should be allowed to be unlucky to more than a very moderate extent.” Then, turning to the prisoner, the judge continued: “You have suffered

492 Samuel Butler a great loss. Nature attaches a severe penalty to such offenses, and human law must emphasize the decrees of nature. But for the recommendation of the jury I should have given you six months’ hard labor. I will, however, commute your sentence to one of three months, with the option of a fine of twenty-five per cent of the money you have received from the insurance company.” The prisoner thanked the judge, and said that as he had no one to look after his children if he was sent to prison, he would embrace the option mercifully permitted him by his lordship, and pay the sum he had named. He was then removed from the dock. The next case was that of a youth barely arrived at man’s estate, who was charged with having been swindled out of large property during his minority by his guardian, who was also one of his nearest relations. His father had been long dead, and it was for this reason that his offense came on for trial in the Personal Bereavement Court. The lad, who was undefended, pleaded that he was young, inexperienced, greatly in awe of his guardian, and without independent professional advice. “Young man,” said the judge sternly, “do not talk nonsense. People have no right to be young, inexperienced, greatly in awe of their guardians, and without independent professional advice. If by such indiscretions they outrage the moral sense of their friends, they must expect to suffer accordingly.” He then ordered the prisoner to apologize to his guardian, and to receive twelve strokes with a cat-o’-nine-tails. But I shall perhaps best convey to the reader an idea of the entire perversion of thought which exists among this extraordinary people by describing the public trial of a man who was accused of pulmonary consumption—an offense which was punished with death until quite recently. It did not occur till I had been some months in the country, and I am deviating from chronological order in giving it here; but I had perhaps better do so in order that I may exhaust this subject before proceeding to others. Moreover, I should never come to an end were I to keep to a strictly narrative form, and detail the infinite absurdities with which I daily came in contact. The prisoner was placed in the dock, and the jury were sworn much as in Europe; almost all our own modes of procedure were reproduced, even to the requiring the prisoner to plead guilty or not guilty. He pleaded not guilty, and the case proceeded. The evidence for the prosecution was very strong; but I must do the court the justice to observe that the trial was absolutely impartial. Counsel for the prisoner was allowed to urge

493CU STOM S AN D OP I N ION S OF TH E E REWHON IAN S everything that could be said in his defense: the line taken was that the prisoner was simulating consumption in order to defraud an insurance company, from which he was about to buy an annuity, and that he hoped thus to obtain it on more advantageous terms. If this could have been shown to be the case he would have escaped a criminal prosecution, and been sent to a hospital as for a moral ailment. The view, however, was one which could not be reasonably sustained, in spite of all the ingenuity and eloquence of one of the most celebrated advocates of the country. The case was only too clear, for the prisoner was almost at the point of death, and it was astonishing that he had not been tried and convicted long previously. His coughing was incessant during the whole trial, and it was all that the two jailers in charge of him could do to keep him on his legs until it was over. The summing up of the judge was admirable. He dwelt upon every point that could be construed in favor of the prisoner, but as he proceeded it became clear that the evidence was too convincing to admit of doubt, and there was but one opinion in the court as to the impending verdict when the jury retired from the box. They were absent for about ten minutes, and on their return the foreman pronounced the prisoner guilty. There was a faint murmur of applause, but it was instantly repressed. The judge then proceeded to pronounce sentence in words which I can never forget, and which I copied out into a note-book next day from the report that was published in the leading newspaper. I must condense it somewhat, and nothing which I could say would give more than a faint idea of the solemn, not to say majestic, severity with which it was delivered. The sentence was as follows: “Prisoner at the bar, you have been accused of the great crime of labouring under pulmonary consumption, and after an impartial trial before a jury of your countrymen, you have been found guilty. Against the justice of the verdict I can say nothing: the evidence against you was conclusive, and it only remains for me to pass such a sentence upon you as shall satisfy the ends of the law. That sentence must be a very severe one. It pains me much to see one who is yet so young, and whose prospects in life were otherwise so excellent, brought to this distressing condition by a constitution which I can only regard as radically vicious; but yours is no case for compassion: this is not your first offence: you have led a career of crime, and have only profited by the leniency shown you upon past occasions to offend yet more seriously against the laws and institutions of your country. You were convicted of aggravated bronchitis

494 Samuel Butler last year; and I find that though you are now only twenty-three years old, you have been imprisoned on no less than fourteen occasions for illnesses of a more or less hateful character; in fact, it is not too much to say that you have spent the greater part of your life in a jail. “It is all very well for you to say that you came of unhealthy parents, and had a severe accident in your childhood which permanently undermined your constitution; excuses such as these are the ordinary refuge of the criminal; but they cannot for one moment be listened to by the ear of justice. I am not here to enter upon curious metaphysical questions as to the origin of this or that—questions to which there would be no end were their introduction once tolerated, and which would result in throwing the only guilt on the tissues of the primordial cell, or on the elementary gases. There is no question of how you came to be wicked, but only this—namely, are you wicked or not? This has been decided in the affirmative, neither can I hesitate for a single moment to say that it has been decided justly. You are a bad and dangerous person, and stand branded in the eyes of your fellow-countrymen with one of the most heinous known offenses. “It is not my business to justify the law: the law may in some cases have its inevitable hardships, and I may feel regret at times that I have not the option of passing a less severe sentence than I am compelled to do. But yours is no such case; on the contrary, had not the capital punishment for consumption been abolished, I should certainly inflict it now. “It is intolerable that an example of such terrible enormity should be allowed to go at large unpunished. Your presence in the society of respectable people would lead the less able-bodied to think more lightly of all forms of illness; neither can it be permitted that you should have the chance of corrupting unborn beings who might hereafter pester you. The unborn must not be allowed to come near you: and this not so much for their protection (for they are our natural enemies) as for our own; for since they will not be utterly gainsaid, it must be seen to that they shall be quartered upon those who are least likely to corrupt them. “But independently of this consideration, and independently of the physical guilt which attaches itself to a crime so great as yours, there is yet another reason why we should be unable to show you mercy, even if we were inclined to do so. I refer to the existence of a class of men who lie hidden among us, and who are called physicians. Were the severity of the law or the current feeling of the country to be relaxed ever so slightly, these abandoned persons, who are now compelled to practise secretly and who can be consulted only at the greatest risk, would become

495CU STOM S AN D OP I N ION S OF TH E E REWHON IAN S frequent visitors in every household; their organization and their intimate acquaintance with all family secrets would give them a power, both social and political, which nothing could resist. The head of the household would become subordinate to the family doctor, who would interfere between man and wife, between master and servant, until the doctors should be the only depositaries of power in the nation, and have all that we hold precious at their mercy. A time of universal dephysicalization would ensue; medicine vendors of all kinds would abound in our streets and advertise in all our newspapers. There is one remedy for this, and one only. It is that which the laws of this country have long received and acted upon, and consists in the sternest repression of all diseases whatsoever, as soon as their existence is made manifest to the eye of the law. Would that that eye were far more piercing than it is. “But I will enlarge no further upon things that are themselves so obvious. You may say that it is not your fault. The answer is ready enough at hand, and it amounts to this—that if you had been born of healthy and well-to-do parents, and been well taken care of when you were a child, you would never have offended against the laws of your country, nor found yourself in your present disgraceful position. If you tell me that you had no hand in your parentage and education, and that it is therefore unjust to lay these things to your charge, I answer that whether your being in a consumption is your fault or no, it is a fault in you, and it is my duty to see that against such faults as this the commonwealth shall be protected. You may say that it is your misfortune to be criminal; I answer that it is your crime to be unfortunate. “Lastly, I should point out that even though the jury had acquitted you—a supposition that I cannot seriously entertain—I should have felt it my duty to inflict a sentence hardly less severe than that which I must pass at present; for the more you had been found guiltless of the crime imputed to you, the more you would have been found guilty of one hardly less heinous—I mean the crime of having been maligned unjustly. “I do not hesitate therefore to sentence you to imprisonment, with hard labour, for the rest of your miserable existence. During that period I would earnestly entreat you to repent of the wrongs you have done already, and to entirely reform the constitution of your whole body. I entertain but little hope that you will pay attention to my advice; you are already far too abandoned. Did it rest with myself, I should add nothing in mitigation of the sentence which I have passed, but it is the merciful provision of the law that even the most hardened criminal shall be allowed some one of the three official remedies, which is to be prescribed

496 Samuel Butler at the time of his conviction. I shall therefore order that you receive two tablespoonfuls of castor oil daily, until the pleasure of the court be further known.” When the sentence was concluded the prisoner acknowledged in a few scarcely audible words that he was justly punished, and that he had had a fair trial. He was then removed to the prison from which he was never to return. There was a second attempt at applause when the judge had finished speaking, but as before it was at once repressed; and though the feeling of the court was stongly against the prisoner, there was no show of any violence against him, if one may except a little hooting from the bystanders when he was being removed in the prisoners’ van. Indeed, nothing struck me more during my whole sojourn in the country than the general respect for law and order. MALCONTENTS I confess that I felt rather unhappy when I got home, and thought more closely over the trial that I had just witnessed. For the time I was carried away by the opinion of those among whom I was. They had no misgivings about what they were doing. There did not seem to be a person in the whole court who had the smallest doubt but that all was exactly as it should be. This universal unsuspecting confidence was imparted by sympathy to myself, in spite of all my training in opinions so widely different. So it is with most of us: that which we observe to be taken as a matter of course by those around us, we take as a matter of course ourselves. And after all, it is our duty to do this, save upon grave occasion. But when I was alone, and began to think the trial over, it certainly did strike me as betraying a strange and untenable position. Had the judge said that he acknowledged the probable truth, namely, that the prisoner was born of unhealthy parents, or had been starved in infancy, or had met with some accidents which had developed consumption, and had he then gone on to say that though he knew all this, and bitterly regretted that the protection of society obliged him to inflict additional pain on one who had suffered so much already, yet that there was no help for it, I could have understood the position, however mistaken I might have thought it. The judge was fully persuaded that the infliction of pain upon the weak and sickly was the only means of preventing weakness and sickliness from spreading, and that ten times the suffering now inflicted upon the accused was eventually warded off from others by the present apparent severity. I could therefore perfectly understand his

497CU STOM S AN D OP I N ION S OF TH E E REWHON IAN S inflicting whatever pain he might consider necessary in order to prevent so bad an example from spreading further and lowering the Erewhonian standard; but it seemed almost childish to tell the prisoner that he could have been in good health if he had been more fortunate in his constitution, and been exposed to less hardships when he was a boy. I write with great diffidence, but it seems to me that there is no unfairness in punishing people for their misfortunes, or rewarding them for their sheer good luck; it is the normal condition of human life that this should be done, and no right-minded person will complain of being subjected to the common treatment. There is no alternative open to us. It is idle to say that men are not responsible for their misfortunes. What is responsibility? Surely to be responsible means to be liable to have to give an answer should it be demanded, and all things which live are responsible for their lives and actions should society see fit to question them through the mouth of its authorized agent. What is the offense of a lamb that we should rear it, and tend it, and lull it into security, for the express purpose of killing it? Its offense is the misfortune of being something which society wants to eat, and which cannot defend itself. This is ample. Who shall limit the right of society except society itself? And what consideration for the individual is tolerable unless society be the gainer thereby? Wherefore should a man be so richly rewarded for having been son to a millionaire, were it not clearly provable that the common welfare is thus better furthered? We cannot seriously detract from a man’s merit in having been the son of a rich father without imperilling our own tenure of things which we do not wish to jeopardize; if this were otherwise we should not let him keep his money for a single hour; we would have it ourselves at once. For property is robbery, but then, we are all robbers or would-be robbers together, and have found it essential to organize our thieving, as we have found it necessary to organize our lust and our revenge. Property, marriage, the law; as the bed to the river, so rule and convention to the instinct; and woe to him who tampers with the banks while the flood is flowing. But to return. Even in England a man on board a ship with yellow fever is held responsible for his mischance, no matter what his being kept in quarantine may cost him. He may catch the fever and die; we cannot help it; he must take his chance as other people do; but surely it would be desperate unkindness to add contumely to our self-protection, unless, in- deed, we believe that contumely is one of our best means of self-protection. Again, take the case of maniacs. We say that they are irresponsible for their actions, but we take good care, or ought to take good care, that

498 Samuel Butler they shall answer to us for their insanity, and we imprison them in what we call an asylum (that modern sanctuary!) if we do not like their answers. This is a strange kind of irresponsibility. What we ought to say is that we can afford to be satisfied with a less satisfactory answer from a lunatic than from one who is not mad, because lunacy is less infectious than crime. We kill a serpent if we go in danger by it, simply for being such and such a serpent in such and such a place; but we never say that the serpent has only itself to blame for not having been a harmless creature. Its crime is that of being the thing which it is: but this is a capital offence, and we are right in killing it out of the way, unless we think it more danger to do so than to let it escape; nevertheless we pity the creature, even though we kill it. But in the case of him whose trial I have described above, it was impossible that any one in the court should not have known that it was but by an accident of birth and circumstances that he was not himself also in a consumption; and yet none thought that it disgraced them to hear the judge give vent to the most cruel truisms about him. The judge himself was a kind and thoughtful person. He was a man of magnificent and benign presence. He was evidently of an iron constitution, and his face wore an expression of the maturest wisdom and experience; yet for all this, old and learned as he was, he could not see things which one would have thought would have been apparent even to a child. He could not emancipate himself from, nay, it did not even occur to him to feel, the bondage of the ideas in which he had been born and bred. So was it also with the jury and bystanders; and—most wonderful of all—so was it even with the prisoner. Throughout he seemed fully impressed with the notion that he was being dealt with justly: he saw nothing wanton in his being told by the judge that he was to be punished not so much as a necessary protection to society (although this was not entirely lost sight of ) as because he had not been better born and bred than he was. But this led me to hope that he suffered less than he would have done if he had seen the matter in the same light that I did. And, after all, justice is relative. I may here mention that only a few years before my arrival in the country, the treatment of all convicted invalids had been much more barbarous than now, for no physical remedy was provided, and prisoners were put to the severest labour in all sorts of weather, so that most of them soon succumbed to the extreme hardships which they suffered; this was supposed to be beneficial in some ways, inasmuch as it put the country to

499CU STOM S AN D OP I N ION S OF TH E E REWHON IAN S less expense for the maintenance of its criminal class; but the growth of luxury had induced a relaxation of the old severity, and a sensitive age would no longer tolerate what appeared to be an excess of rigour, even towards the most guilty; moreover, it was found that juries were less willing to convict, and justice was often cheated because there was no alternative between virtually condemning a man to death and letting him go free; it was also held that the country paid in recommittals for its over-severity, for those who had been imprisoned even for trifling ailments were often permanently disabled by their imprisonment, and when a man had been once convicted, it was probable that he would seldom afterwards be off the hands of the country. These evils had long been apparent and recognized; yet people were too indolent, and too indifferent to suffering not their own, to bestir themselves about putting an end to them, until at last a benevolent reformer devoted his whole life to effecting the necessary changes. He divided all illnesses into three classes—those affecting the head, the trunk, and the lower limbs—and obtained an enactment that all diseases of the head, whether internal or external, should be treated with laudanum, those of the body with castor oil, and those of the lower limbs with an embrocation of strong sulphuric acid and water. It may be said that the classification was not sufficiently careful, and that the remedies were ill chosen; but it is a hard thing to initiate any reform, and it was necessary to familiarize the public mind with the principle, by inserting the thin end of the wedge first: it is not, therefore, to be wondered at that among so practical a people there should still be some room for improvement. The mass of the nation are well pleased with existing arrangements, and believe that their treatment of criminals leaves little or nothing to be desired; but there is an energetic minority who hold what are considered to be extreme opinions, and who are not at all disposed to rest contented until the principle lately admitted has been carried further. I was at some pains to discover the opinions of these men, and their reasons for entertaining them. They are held in great odium by the generality of the public, and are considered as subverters of all morality whatever. The malcontents, on the other hand, assert that illness is the inevitable result of certain antecedent causes, which, in the great majority of cases, were beyond the control of the individual, and that therefore a man is only guilty for being in a consumption in the same way as rotten fruit is guilty for having gone rotten. True, the fruit must be thrown on one side as unfit for man’s use, and the man in a consumption must be

500 Samuel Butler put in prison for the protection of his fellow-citizens; but these radicals would not punish him further than by loss of liberty and a strict surveillance. So long as he was prevented from injuring society, they would allow him to make himself useful by supplying whatever of society’s wants he could supply. If he succeeded in thus earning money, they would have him made as comfortable in prison as possible, and would in no way interfere with his liberty more than was necessary to prevent him from escaping, or from becoming more severely indisposed within the prison walls; but they would deduct from his earnings the expenses of his board, lodging, surveillance, and half those of his conviction. If he was too ill to do anything for his support in prison, they would allow him nothing but bread and water, and very little of that. They say that society is foolish in refusing to allow itself to be benefited by a man merely because he has done it harm hitherto, and that objection to the labour of the diseased classes is only protection in another form. It is an attempt to raise the natural price of a commodity by saying that such and such persons, who are able and willing to produce it, shall not do so, whereby every one has to pay more for it. Besides, so long as a man has not been actually killed he is our fellow- creature, though perhaps a very unpleasant one. It is in a great degree the doing of others that he is what he is, or in other words, the society which now condemns him is partly answerable concerning him. They say that there is no fear of any increase of disease under these circumstances; for the loss of liberty, the surveillance, the considerable and compulsory deduction from the prisoner’s earnings, the very sparing use of stimulants (of which they would allow but little to any, and none to those who did not earn them), the enforced celibacy, and, above all, the loss of reputation among friends are in their opinion as ample safeguards to society against a general neglect of health as those now resorted to. A man, therefore (so they say), should carry his profession or trade into prison with him if possible; if not, he must earn his living by the nearest thing to it that he can; but if he be a gentleman born and bred to no profession, he must pick oakum, or write art criticisms for a newspaper. These people say further that the greater part of the illness which exists in their country is brought about by the insane manner in which it is treated. They believe that illness is in many cases just as curable as the moral diseases which they see daily cured around them, but that a great reform is impossible till men learn to take a juster view of what physical obliquity proceeds from. Men will hide their illnesses as long as they are scouted

501CU STOM S AN D OP I N ION S OF TH E E REWHON IAN S on its becoming known that they are ill; it is the scouting, not the physic, which produces the concealment; and if a man felt that the news of his being in ill health would be received by his neighbours as a deplorable fact, but one as much the result of necessary antecedent causes as though he had broken into a jeweler’s shop and stolen a valuable diamond necklace—as a fact which might just as easily have happened to themselves, only that they had the luck to be better born or reared, and if they also felt that they would not be made more uncomfortable in the prison than the protection of society against infection and the proper treatment of their own disease actually demanded, men would give themselves up to the police as readily on perceiving that they had taken smallpox, as they go now to the straightener when they feel that they are on the point of forging a will, or running away with somebody else’s wife. But the main argument on which they rely is that of economy: for they know that they will sooner gain their end by appealing to men’s pockets, in which they have generally something of their own, than to their heads, which contain for the most part little but borrowed or stolen property; and also, they believe it to be the readiest test and the one which has most to show for itself. If a course of conduct can be shown to cost a country less, and this by no dishonourable saving and with no indirectly increased expenditure in other ways, they hold that it requires a good deal to upset the arguments in favour of its being adopted, and whether rightly or wrongly I cannot pretend to say, they think that the more medicinal and humane treatment of the diseased of which they are the advocates would in the long run be much cheaper to the country: but I did not gather that these reformers were opposed to meeting some of the more violent forms of illness with the cat-o’-nine-tails, or with death; for they saw no so effectual way of checking them; they would therefore both flog and hang, but they would do so pitifully. I have perhaps dwelt too long upon opinions which can have no possible bearing upon our own, but I have not said the tenth part of what these would-be reformers urged upon me. I feel, however, that I have sufficiently trespassed upon the attention of the reader. THE VIEWS OF THE EREWHONIANS CONCERNING DEATH The Erewhonians regard death with less abhorrence than disease. If it is an offence at all, it is one beyond the reach of the law, which is therefore silent on the subject; but they insist that the greater number of those

502 Samuel Butler who are commonly said to die have never yet been born—not, at least, into that unseen world which is alone worthy of consideration. As regards this unseen world I understand them to say that some miscarry in respect to it before they have even reached the seen, and some after, while few are ever truly born into it at all—the greater part of all the men and women over the whole country miscarrying before they reach it. And they say that this does not matter so much as we think it does. As for what we call death, they argue that too much has been made of it. The mere knowledge that we shall one day die does not make us very unhappy; no one thinks that he or she will escape, so that none are disappointed. We do not care greatly even though we know that we have not long to live; the only thing that would seriously affect us would be the knowing—or rather thinking that we know—the precise moment at which the blow will fall. Happily no one can ever certainly know this, though many try to make themselves miserable by endeavouring to find it out. It seems as though there were some power somewhere which mercifully stays us from putting that sting into the tail of death, which we would put there if we could, and which ensures that though death must always be a bugbear, it shall never under any conceivable circumstances be more than a bugbear. For even though a man is condemned to die in a week’s time and is shut up in a prison from which it is certain that he cannot escape, he will always hope that a reprieve may come before the week is over. Besides, the prison may catch fire, and he may be suffocated not with a rope but with common ordinary smoke; or he may be struck dead by lightning while exercising in the prison yards. When the morning is come on which the poor wretch is to be hanged, he may choke at his breakfast, or die from failure of the heart’s action before the drop has fallen; and even though it has fallen, he cannot be quite certain that he is going to die, for he cannot know this till his death has actually taken place, and it will be too late then for him to discover that he was going to die at the appointed hour after all. The Erewhonians, therefore, hold that death, like life, is an affair of being more frightened than hurt. They burn their dead, and the ashes are presently scattered over any piece of ground which the deceased may himself have chosen. No one is permitted to refuse this hospitality to the dead: people, therefore, gen- erally choose some garden or orchard which they may have known and been fond of when they were young. The superstitious hold that those whose ashes are scattered over any land become its jealous guardians from that time forward; and the living like to think that they shall become

503CU STOM S AN D OP I N ION S OF TH E E REWHON IAN S identified with this or that locality where they have once been happy. They do not put up monuments, nor write epitaphs, for their dead, though in former ages their practice was much as ours, but they have a custom which comes to much the same thing, for the instinct of preserving the name alive after the death of the body seems to be common to all mankind. They have statues of themselves made while they are still alive (those, that is, who can afford it), and write inscriptions under them, which are often quite as untruthful as are our own epitaphs—only in another way. For they do not hesitate to describe themselves as victims to ill temper, jealousy, covetousness, and the like, but almost always lay claim to personal beauty, whether they have it or not, and, often, to the possession of a large sum in the funded debt of the country. If a person is ugly he does not sit as a model for his own statue, although it bears his name. He gets the handsomest of his friends to sit for him, and one of the ways of paying a compliment to another is to ask him to sit for such a statue. Women generally sit for their own statues, from a natural disinclination to admit the superior beauty of a friend, but they expect to be idealized. I understood that the multitude of these statues was beginning to be felt as an encumbrance in almost every family, and that the custom would probably before long fall into desuetude. Indeed, this has already come about to the satisfaction of every one, as regards the statues of public men—not more than three of which can be found in the whole capital. I expressed my surprise at this, and was told that some five hundred years before my visit, the city had been so overrun with these pests that there was no getting about, and people were worried beyond endurance by having their attention called at every touch and turn to something, which, when they had attended to it, they found not to concern them. Most of these statues were mere attempts to do for some man or woman what an animal stuffer does more successfully for a dog, or bird, or pike. They were generally foisted on the public by some coterie that was trying to exalt itself in exalting some one else, and not unfrequently they had no other inception than desire on the part of some member of the coterie to find a job for a young sculptor to whom his daughter was engaged. Statues so begotten could never be anything but deformities, and this is the way in which they are sure to be begotten, as soon as the art of making them at all has become widely practised. I know not why, but all the noblest arts hold in perfection but for a very little moment. They soon reach a height from which they begin to decline, and when they have begun to decline it is a pity that they cannot be knocked on the head; for an art is like a living organism—better

504 Samuel Butler dead than dying. There is no way of making an aged art young again; it must be born anew and grow up from infancy as a new thing, working out its own salvation from effort to effort in all fear and trembling. The Erewhonians five hundred years ago understood nothing of all this—I doubt whether they even do so now. They wanted to get the nearest thing they could to a stuffed man whose stuffing should not grow mouldy. They should have had some such an establishment as our Madame Tussaud’s, where the figures wear real clothes, and are painted up to nature. Such an institution might have been made self-supporting, for people might have been made to pay before going in. As it was, they had let their poor cold grimy colourless heroes and heroines loaf about in squares and in corners of streets in all weathers, without any attempt at artistic sanitation— for there was no provision for burying their dead works of art out of their sight—no drainage, so to speak, whereby statues that had been sufficiently assimilated, so as to form part of the residuary impression of the country, might be carried away out of the system. Hence they put them up with a light heart on the cackling of their coteries, and they and their children had to live, often enough, with some wordy windbag whose cowardice had cost the country untold loss in blood and money. At last the evil reached such a pitch that the people rose, and with indiscriminate fury destroyed good and bad alike. Most of what was destroyed was bad, but some few works were good, and the sculptors of to-day wring their hands over some of the fragments that have been preserved in museums up and down the country. For a couple of hundred years or so, not a statue was made from one end of the kingdom to the other, but the instinct for having stuffed men and women was so strong that people at length again began to try to make them. Not knowing how to make them, and having no academies to mislead them, the earliest sculptors of this period thought things out for themselves, and again produced works that were full of interest, so that in three or four generations they reached a perfection hardly if at all inferior to that of several hundred years earlier. On this the same evils recurred. Sculptors obtained high prices—the art became a trade—schools arose which professed to sell the holy spirit of art for money; pupils flocked from far and near to buy it, in the hopes of selling it later on, and were struck purblind as a punishment for the sin of those who sent them. Before long a second iconoclastic fury would infallibly have followed, but for the prescience of a statesman who succeeded in passing an act to the effect that no statue of any public man or woman should be allowed to remain unbroken for more than fifty years,

505CU STOM S AN D OP I N ION S OF TH E E REWHON IAN S unless at the end of that time a jury of twenty-four men taken at random from the street pronounced in favour of its being allowed a second fifty years of life. Every fifty years this reconsideration was to be repeated, and unless there was a majority of eighteen in favour of the retention of the statue, it was to be destroyed. Perhaps a simple plan would have been to forbid the erection of a statue to any public man or woman till he or she had been dead at least one hundred years, and even then to insist on reconsideration of the claims of the deceased and the merit of the statue every fifty years—but the working of the act brought about results that on the whole were satisfactory. For in the first place, many public statues that would have been voted under the old system were not ordered when it was known that they would be almost certainly broken up after fifty years, and in the second, public sculptors knowing their work to be so ephemeral scamped it to an extent that made it offensive even to the most uncultured eye. Hence before long subscribers took to paying the sculptor for the statue of their dead statesmen on condition that he did not make it. The tribute of respect was thus paid to the deceased, the public sculptors were not mulcted, and the rest of the public suffered no inconvenience. I was told, however, that an abuse of this custom is growing up, inasmuch as the competition for the commission not to make a statue is so keen that sculptors have been known to return a considerable part of the purchase money to the subscribers, by an arrangement made with them beforehand. Such transactions, however, are always clandestine. A small inscription is let into the pavement where the public statue would have stood, which informs the reader that such a statue has been ordered for the person, whoever he or she may be, but that as yet the sculptor has not been able to complete it. There has been no act to repress statues that are intended for private consumption, but as I have said, the custom is falling into desuetude. Returning to Erewhonian customs in connection with death, there is one which I can hardly pass over. When any one dies, the friends of the family write no letters of condolence, neither do they attend the scattering, nor wear mourning, but they send little boxes filled with artificial tears, and with the name of the sender painted neatly upon the outside of the lid. The tears vary in number from two to fifteen or sixteen, according to degree of intimacy or relationship; and people sometimes find it a nice point of etiquette to know the exact number which they ought to send. Strange as it may appear, this attention is highly valued, and its omission by those from whom it might be expected is keenly felt. These tears were formerly stuck with adhesive plaster to the cheeks of the

506 Samuel Butler bereaved, and were worn in public for a few months after the death of a relative; they were then banished to the hat or bonnet, and are now no longer worn. The birth of a child is looked upon as a painful subject on which it is kinder not to touch: the illness of the mother is carefully concealed until the necessity for signing the birth formula (of which hereafter) renders further secrecy impossible, and for some months before the event the family live in retirement, seeing very little company. When the offense is over and done with, it is condoned by the common want of logic; for this merciful provision of nature, this buffer against collisions, this friction which upsets our calculations but without which existence would be intolerable, this crowning glory of human invention whereby we can be blind and see at one and the same moment, this blessed inconsistency exists here as elsewhere; and though the strictest writers on morality have maintained that it is wicked for a woman to have children at all, inasmuch as it is wrong to be out of health that good may come, yet the necessity of the case has caused a general feeling in favour of passing over such events in silence, and of assuming their non-existence except in such flagrant cases as force themselves on the public notice. Against these the condemnation of society is inexorable, and if it is believed that the illness has been dangerous and protracted, it is almost impossible for a woman to recover her former position in society. The above conventions struck me as arbitrary and cruel, but they put a stop to many fancied ailments; for the situation, so far from being considered interesting, is looked upon as savouring more or less distinctly of a very reprehensible condition of things, and the ladies take care to conceal it as long as they can even from their own husbands, in anticipation of a severe scolding as soon as the misdemeanour is discovered. Also the baby is kept out of sight, except on the day of signing the birth formula, until it can walk and talk. Should the child unhappily die, a coroner’s inquest is inevitable, but in order to avoid disgracing a family which may have been hitherto respected, it is almost invariably found that the child was over seventy-five years old, and died from the decay of nature. The foregoing comprises Chapters X–XIII of Samuel Butler’s EREWHON

507 Sherwood Anderson 1876–1941 Sherwood Anderson was born in Camden, Ohio, on September13, 1876. His boyhood as a member of a sturdy poor man’s family became a long wandering from one Middle Western backwater town to another. He got little schooling. He learned the trade of life as a newsboy, house painter, farm hand, warehouse worker and race-track swipe. He wrote later that he had “always understood horses better than men.” He joined the army during the Spanish-American War and served in Cuba as a corporal. When he got back, he put in a year of study at Wittenberg Academy in Ohio and became an advertising writer in Chicago. For a while he managed a paint factory in Ohio. One day in 1913 he walked out in the middle of dictating a letter, went back to Chicago and wrote advertising copy while he worked at his own writing. A first novel, Windy McPherson’s Son, was published in 1916, and Marching Men the next year. In 1919 he made his name with Winesburg, Ohio, a suite of stories that compose into the picture of a small town more repressive than Fitzgerald’s Hades or Sinclair Lewis’ Gopher Prairie. Anderson followed this with the novel Poor White. He received the first Dial Award of $2,000 in 1921, the same year in which a second collection of stories, The Triumph of the Egg, was published. During this period he joined the Port of New York group that included Paul Rosenfeld, Waldo Frank, Lewis Mumford, and Alfred Stieglitz. He spoke for them too when he said that “Americans had to begin to stay, in spirit at least, at home. We had to accept our materials. . . .” In two later novels, Many Marriages and Dark Laughter, his sense of the interior flow of feeling in his characters brought him close to D. H. Lawrence.

508 Sherwood Anderson In 1925 he settled in Marion, Virginia, where he published both the Democratic and the Republican newspapers. He wrote three volumes of autobiography: A Story Teller’s Story, Tar: a Midwest Childhood and the posthumous Memoirs. He was taken ill aboard a cruise ship and died in Colón, Panamá, on March 8, 1941. The story which follows, I’m a Fool, appeared in Anderson’s 1923 volume of stories, Horses and Men. Like Turgenev’s short novel and Galsworthy’s The Apple-Tree, it is a story of first love. These three narratives turn on a conflict between the emotion of the lovers and the social circumstances in which they are caught. When Hemingway’s work first began to be published, a few critics suggested that he had learned his style from Anderson. Anderson disclaimed this. To us too it seems much more likely that—as Hemingway pointed out later in his own case—each had derived a style from The Adventures of Huckleberry Finn. In that book, Twain wrote that he had employed seven Middle Western dialects. These, he said, were set down “not in a haphazard fashion, by guesswork; but painstakingly, and with the trustworthy guidance and support of personal familiarity. . . .” For all three writers, “personal familiarity” with the common talk of their region must have been the main source. The problem was how to transform it into a literary language. Sometimes Anderson solved this very well, sometimes badly. At his worst, he could write the colloquial as if he had learned it in a three-months’ correspondence course; and his years of advertising writing betrayed him now and again into a twisted syntax that had little to do with conventional prose or any spoken language. All these aspects of Anderson’s work, plus strong echoes of Huckleberry Finn, appear in I’m a Fool. But in this story, as is usually the case with Anderson, faithfulness to human meaning is the thing; and here he triumphs. It is simply Notes from the artist: “. . . apples that fall to the ground and are rejected by the big-city packers—Anderson’s analysis of some of the small-town people, seen here partly as phantoms, he described in Winesburg, Ohio.”

510 Sherwood Anderson told, but it is not simple. It suggests much more than the narrator tells us, and it is full of hidden ironies he is not aware of. It is, at bottom, a story of love versus custom and convention. Anderson gives us the delicate shades of social feeling. We see finally, as indeed the narrator himself does, that the conflict has largely taken place inside him. Would it have been any different if he had told the Wessens and Miss Woodbury who he was and what kind of work he did? They are not snobs. We feel at least, as he does, that the future might have been open to him. Is it closed now? He believes that it is. His folly has closed it. But what is this folly, after all? What youth has not lied to impress a girl—and if he has not, what sort of youth is he? If the narrator could lie well enough to convince his new friends, why did he lack the wit to talk himself out of it afterwards? We see why. He is paralyzed with guilt, not at the lie itself, but at the nature of it. He feels that he has given himself away—literally, as he says, made a fool of himself. Here we need to recall what the American small town was like in the late nineteenth century. Underneath the genuine good nature of its democratic manners, it had settled into a caste system. This was what Mark Twain’s Hannibal had come to. It would be broken up in its turn by the changes after World War I. The narrator protests to himself that he is as good as the next man. He does not feel it. And once he has been accepted by his new friends as what he is not, he feels free to think of ordinary people as “yaps” and the “common kind of cattle.” So he prepares his own grief.

511 I’m a Fool t was a hard jolt for me, one of the most bitterest I ever had to face. And it all came about through my own foolishness, too. Even yet sometimes, when I think of it, I want to cry or swear or kick myself. Perhaps, even now, after all this time, there will be a kind of satisfaction in making myself look cheap by telling of it. It began at three o’clock one October afternoon as I sat in the grandstand at the fall trotting and pacing meet at Sandusky, Ohio. To tell the truth, I felt a little foolish that I should be sitting in the grandstand at all. During the summer before I had left my home town with Harry Whitehead and, with a nigger named Burt, had taken a job as swipe with one of the two horses Harry was campaigning through the fall race meets that year. Mother cried and my sister Mildred, who wanted to get a job as a schoolteacher in our town that fall, stormed and scolded about the house all during the week before I left. They both thought it something disgraceful that one of our family should take a place as a swipe with race horses. I’ve an idea Mildred thought my taking the place would stand in the way of her getting the job she’d been working so long for. But after all I had to work, and there was no other work to be got. A big lumbering fellow of nineteen couldn’t just hang around the house and I had got too big to mow people’s lawns and sell newspapers. Little chaps who could get next to people’s sympathies by their sizes were always getting jobs away from me. There was one fellow who kept saying to everyone who wanted a lawn mowed or a cistern cleaned that he was saving money to work his way through college, and I used to lay awake nights thinking up ways to injure him without being found out. I kept thinking of wagons running over him and bricks falling on his head as he walked along the street. But never mind him. I got the place with Harry and I liked Burt fine. We got along splendid together. He was a big nigger with a lazy sprawling body and soft, kind

512 Sherwood Anderson eyes, and when it came to a fight he could hit like Jack Johnson. He had Bucephalus, a big black pacing stallion that could do 2.09 or 2.10, if he had to, and I had a little gelding named Doctor Fritz that never lost a race all fall when Harry wanted him to win. We set out from home late in July in a boxcar with the two horses and after that, until late November, we kept moving along to the race meets and the fairs. It was a peachy time for me, I’ll say that. Sometimes now I think that boys who are raised regular in houses, and never have a fine nigger like Burt for best friend, and go to high schools and college, and never steal anything, or get drunk a little, or learn to swear from fellows who know how, or come walking up in front of a grandstand in their shirt sleeves and with dirty horsey pants on when the races are going on and the grandstand is full of people all dressed up—What’s the use of talking about it? Such fellows don’t know nothing at all. They’ve never had no opportunity. But I did. Burt taught me how to rub down a horse and put the bandages on after a race and steam a horse out and a lot of valuable things for any man to know. He could wrap a bandage on a horse’s leg so smooth that if it had been the same color you would think it was his skin, and I guess he’d have been a big driver, too, and got to the top like Murphy and Walter Cox and the others if he hadn’t been black. Gee whizz, it was fun. You got to a county seat town, maybe say on a Saturday or Sunday, and the fair began the next Tuesday and lasted until Friday afternoon. Doctor Fritz would be, say in the 2.25 trot on Tuesday afternoon and on Thursday afternoon Bucephalus would knock ’em cold in the “free-for-all” pace. It left you a lot of time to hang around and listen to horse talk, and see Burt knock some yap cold that got too gay, and you’d find out about horses and men and pick up a lot of stuff you could use all the rest of your life, if you had some sense and salted down what you heard and felt and saw. And then at the end of the week when the race meet was over, and Harry had run home to tend up to his livery stable business, you and Burt hitched the two horses to carts and drove slow and steady across country, to the place for the next meeting, so as to not overheat the horses, etc., etc., you know. Gee whizz, Gosh amighty, the nice hickory nut and beechnut and oaks and other kinds of trees along the roads, all brown and red, and the good smells, and Burt singing a song that was called Deep River, and the country girls at the windows of houses and everything. You can stick

513I’M A FOOL your colleges up your nose for all me. I guess I know where I got my education. Why, one of those little burgs of towns you come to on the way, say now on a Saturday afternoon, and Burt says, “Let’s lay up here.” And you did. And you took the horses to a livery stable and fed them, and you got your good clothes out of a box and put them on. And the town was full of farmers gaping, because they could see you were race-horse people, and the kids maybe never see a nigger before and was afraid and run away when the two of us walked down their main street. And that was before prohibition and all that foolishness, and so you went into a saloon, the two of you, and all the yaps come and stood around, and there was always someone pretended he was horsey and knew things and spoke up and began asking questions, and all you did was to lie and lie all you could about what horses you had, and I said I owned them, and then some fellow said, “will you have a drink of whisky” and Burt knocked his eye out the way he could say, offhand-like, “Oh well, all right, I’m agreeable to a little nip. I’ll split a quart with you.” Gee whizz. But that isn’t what I want to tell my story about. We got home late in November and I promised mother I’d quit the race horses for good. There’s a lot of things you’ve got to promise a mother because she don’t know any better. And so, there not being any work in our town any more than when I left there to go to the races, I went off to Sandusky and got a pretty good place taking care of horses for a man who owned a teaming and delivery and storage and coal and real estate business there. It was a pretty good place with good eats, and a day off each week, and sleeping on a cot in a big barn, and mostly just shoveling in hay and oats to a lot of big good-enough skates of horses, that couldn’t have trotted a race with a toad. I wasn’t dissatisfied and I could send money home. And then, as I started to tell you, the fall races come to Sandusky and I got the day off and I went. I left the job at noon and had on my good clothes and my new brown derby hat I’d just bought the Saturday before, and a stand-up collar. First of all I went downtown and walked about with the dudes. I’ve always thought to myself, “put up a good front” and so I did it. I had

514 Sherwood Anderson forty dollars in my pocket and so I went into the West House, a big hotel, and walked up to the cigar stand. “Give me three twenty-five cent cig ars,” I said. There was a lot of horsemen and strangers and dressed-up people from other towns standing around in the lobby and in the bar, and I mingled amongst them. In the bar there was a fellow with a cane and a Windsor tie on, that it made me sick to look at him. I like a man to be a man and dress up, but not to go put on that kind of airs. So I pushed him aside, kind of rough, and had me a drink of whisky. And then he looked at me, as though he thought maybe he’d get gay, but he changed his mind and didn’t say anything. And then I had another drink of whisky, just to show him something, and went out and had a hack out to the races, all to myself, and when I got there I bought myself the best seat I could get up in the grandstand, but didn’t go in for any of these boxes. That’s putting on too many airs. And so there I was, sitting up in the grandstand as gay as you please and looking down on the swipes coming out with their horses, and with their dirty horsey pants on and the horse blankets swung over their shoulders, same as I had been doing all the year before. I liked one thing about the same as the other, sitting up there and feeling grand and being down there and looking up at the yaps and feeling grander and more important, too. One thing’s about as good as another, if you take it just right. I’ve often said that. Well, right in front of me, in the grandstand that day, there was a fellow with a couple of girls and they was about my age. The young fellow was a nice guy all right. He was the kind maybe that goes to college and then comes to be a lawyer or maybe a newspaper editor or something like that, but he wasn’t stuck on himself. There are some of that kind are all right and he was one of the ones. He had his sister with him and another girl and the sister looked around over his shoulder, accidental at first, not intending to start anything—she wasn’t that kind—and her eyes and mine happened to meet. You know how it is. Gee, she was a peach! She had on a soft dress, kind of a blue stuff and it looked carelessly made, but was well sewed and made and everything. I knew that much. I blushed when she looked right at me and so did she. She was the nicest girl I’ve ever seen in my life. She wasn’t stuck on herself and she could talk proper grammar without being like a schoolteacher or something like that. What I mean is, she was O. K. I think maybe her father was well-to-do, but not rich to make her chesty because she was his daughter, as some are. Maybe he

515I’M A FOOL owned a drugstore or a drygoods store in their home town, or something like that. She never told me and I never asked. My own people are all O. K. too, when you come to that. My grandfather was Welsh and over in the old country, in Wales he was— But never mind that. The first heat of the first race come off and the young fellow setting there with the two girls left them and went down to make a bet. I knew what he was up to, but he didn’t talk big and noisy and let everyone around know he was a sport, as some do. He wasn’t that kind. Well, he come back and I heard him tell the two girls what horse he’d bet on, and when the heat was trotted they all half got to their feet and acted in the excited, sweaty way people do when they’ve got money down on a race, and the horse they bet on is up there pretty close at the end, and they think maybe he’ll come on with a rush, but he never does because he hasn’t got the old juice in him, come right down to it. And then, pretty soon, the horses came out for the 2.18 pace and there was a horse in it I knew. He was a horse Bob French had in his string but Bob didn’t own him. He was a horse owned by a Mr. Mathers down at Marietta, Ohio. This Mr. Mathers had a lot of money and owned some coal mines or something, and he had a swell place out in the country, and he was stuck on race horses, but was a Presbyterian or something, and I think more than likely his wife was one, too, maybe a stiffer one than himself. So he never raced his horses hisself, and the story round the Ohio race tracks was that when one of his horses got ready to go to the races he turned him over to Bob French and pretended to his wife he was sold. So Bob had the horses and he did pretty much as he pleased and you can’t blame Bob, at least, I never did. Sometimes he was out to win and sometimes he wasn’t. I never cared much about that when I was swiping a horse. What I did want to know was that my horse had the speed and could go out in front, if you wanted him to. And, as I’m telling you, there was Bob in this race with one of Mr. Mathers’ horses, was named About Ben Ahem or something like that, and was fast as a streak. He was a gelding and had a mark of 2.21, but could step in .08 or .09. Because when Burt and I were out, as I’ve told you, the year before, there was a nigger Burt knew, worked for Mr. Mathers and we went out there one day when we didn’t have no race on at the Marietta Fair and our boss Harry was gone home.

516 Sherwood Anderson And so everyone was gone to the fair but just this one nigger and he took us all through Mr. Mathers’ swell house and he and Burt tapped a bottle of wine Mr. Mathers had hid in his bedroom, back in a closet, without his wife knowing, and he showed us this Ahem horse. Burt was always stuck on being a driver but didn’t have much chance to get to the top, being a nigger, and he and the other nigger gulped that whole bottle of wine and Burt got a little lit up. So the nigger let Burt take this About Ben Ahem and step him a mile in a track Mr. Mathers had all to himself, right there on the farm. And Mr. Mathers had one child, a daughter, kinda sick and not very good- looking, and she came home and we had to hustle and get About Ben Ahem stuck back in the barn. I’m only telling you to get everything straight. At Sandusky, that afternoon I was at the fair, this young fellow with the two girls was fussed, being with the girls and losing his bet. You know how a fellow is that way. One of them was his girl and the other his sister. I had figured that out. “Gee whizz,” I says to myself, “I’m going to give him the dope.” He was mighty nice when I touched him on the shoulder. He and the girls were nice to me right from the start and clear to the end. I’m not blaming them. And so he leaned back and I give him the dope on About Ben Ahem. “Don’t bet a cent on this first heat because he’ll go like an oxen hitched to a plow, but when the first heat is over go right down and lay on your pile.” That’s what I told him. Well, I never saw a fellow treat anyone sweller. There was a fat man sitting beside the little girl that had looked at me twice by this time, and I at her, and both blushing, and what did he do but have the nerve to turn and ask the fat man to get up and change places with me so I could set with his crowd. Gee whizz, craps amighty. There I was. What a chump I was to go and get gay up there in the West House bar, and just because that dude was standing there with a cane and that kind of a necktie on, to go and get all balled up and drink that whisky, just to show off. Of course she would know, me setting right beside her and letting her smell of my breath. I could have kicked myself right down out of that grandstand and all around that race track and made a faster record than most of the skates of horses they had there that year. Because that girl wasn’t any mutt of a girl. What wouldn’t I have give right then for a stick of chewing gum to chew, or a lozenger, or some

517I’M A FOOL licorice, or most anything. I was glad I had those twenty-five cent cigars in my pocket and right away I give that fellow one and lit one myself. Then that fat man got up and we changed places and there I was, plunked right down beside her. They introduced themselves and the fellow’s best girl, he had with him, was named Miss Elinor Woodbury, and her father was a manufacturer of barrels from a place called Tiffin, Ohio. And the fellow himself was named Wilbur Wessen and his sister was Miss Lucy Wessen. I suppose it was their having such swell names got me off my trolley. A fellow, just because he has been a swipe with a race horse, and works taking care of horses for a man in the teaming, delivery, and storage business, isn’t any better or worse than anyone else. I’ve often thought that, and said it too. But you know how a fellow is. There’s something in that kind of nice clothes, and the kind of nice eyes she had, and the way she had looked at me, awhile before, over her brother’s shoulder, and me looking back at her, and both of us blushing. I couldn’t show her up for a boob, could I? I made a fool of myself, that’s what I did. I said my name was Walter Mathers from Marietta, Ohio, and then I told all three of them the smashingest lie you ever heard. What I said was that my father owned the horse About Ben Ahem and that he had let him out to this Bob French for racing purposes, because our family was proud and had never gone into racing that way, in our own name, I mean. Then I had got started and they were all leaning over and listening, and Miss Lucy Wessen’s eyes were shining, and I went the whole hog. I told about our place down at Marietta, and about the big stables and the grand brick house we had on a hill, up above the Ohio River, but I knew enough not to do it in no bragging way. What I did was to start things and then let them drag the rest out of me. I acted just as reluctant to tell as I could. Our family hasn’t got any barrel factory, and, since I’ve known us, we’ve always been pretty poor, but not asking anything of anyone at that, and my grandfather, over in Wales— But never mind that. We set there talking like we had known each other for years and years, and I went and told them that my father had been expecting maybe this Bob French wasn’t on the square, and had sent me up to Sandusky on the sly to find out what I could. And I bluffed it through I had found out all about the 2.18 pace, in which About Ben Ahem was to start.

518 Sherwood Anderson I said he would lose the first heat by pacing like a lame cow and then he would come back and skin ’em alive after that. And to back up what I said I took thirty dollars out of my pocket and handed it to Mr. Wilbur Wessen and asked him, would he mind, after the first heat, to go down and place it on About Ben Ahem for whatever odds he could get. What I said was that I didn’t want Bob French to see me and none of the swipes. Sure enough the first heat come off and About Ben Ahem went off his stride, up the back stretch, and looked like a wooden horse or a sick one, and come in to be last. Then this Wilbur Wessen went down to the betting place under the grandstand and there I was with the two girls, and when that Miss Woodbury was looking the other way once, Lucy Wessen kinda, with her shoulder you know, kinda touched me. Not just tucking down, I don’t mean. You know how a woman can do. They get close, but not getting gay either. You know what they do. Gee whizz. And then they give me a jolt. What they had done, when I didn’t know, was to get together, and they had decided Wilbur Wessen would bet fifty dollars, and the two girls had gone and put in ten dollars each, of their own money, too. I was sick then, but I was sicker later. About the gelding, About Ben Ahem, and their winning their money, I wasn’t worried a lot about that. It come out O. K. Ahem stepped the next three heats like a bushel of spoiled eggs going to market before they could be found out, and Wilbur Wessen had got nine to two for the money. There was something else eating at me. Because Wilbur come back, after he had bet the money, and after that he spent most of his time talking to that Miss Woodbury, and Lucy Wessen and I was left alone together like on a desert island. Gee, if I’d only been on the square or if there had been any way of getting myself on the square. There ain’t any Walter Mathers, like I said to her and them, and there hasn’t ever been one, but if there was, I bet I’d go to Marietta, Ohio, and shoot him tomorrow. There I was, big boob that I am. Pretty soon the race was over, and Wilbur had gone down and collected our money, and we had a hack downtown, and he stood us a swell supper at the West House, and a bottle of champagne beside. And I was with that girl and she wasn’t saying much, and I wasn’t say- ing much either. One thing I know. She wasn’t stuck on me because of the lie about my father being rich and all that. There’s a way you know. . . . Craps amighty. There’s a kind of girl, you see just once in your life,

519I’M A FOOL and if you don’t get busy and make hay, then you’re gone for good and all, and might as well go jump off a bridge. They give you a look from inside of them somewhere, and it ain’t no vamping, and what it means is—you want that girl to be your wife, and you want nice things around her like flowers and swell clothes, and you want her to have the kids you’re going to have, and you want good music played and no ragtime. Gee whizz. There’s a place over near Sandusky, across a kind of bay, and it’s called Cedar Point. And after we had supper we went over to it in a launch, all by ourselves. Wilbur and Miss Lucy and that Miss Woodbury had to catch a ten o’clock train back to Tiffin, Ohio, because, when you’re out with girls like that you can’t get careless and miss any trains and stay out all night, like you can with some kinds of Janes. And Wilbur blowed himself to the launch and it cost him fifteen cold plunks, but I wouldn’t never have knew if I hadn’t listened. He wasn’t no tin-horn kind of a sport. Over at the Cedar Point place, we didn’t stay around where there was a gang of common kind of cattle at all. There was big dance halls and dining places for yaps, and there was a beach you could walk along and get where it was dark, and we went there. She didn’t talk hardly at all and neither did I, and I was thinking how glad I was my mother was all right, and always made us kids learn to eat with a fork at table, and not swill soup, and not be noisy and rough like a gang you see around a race track that way. Then Wilbur and his girl went away up the beach and Lucy and I sat down in a dark place, where there was some roots of old trees, the water had washed up, and after that the time, till we had to go back in the launch and they had to catch their trains, wasn’t nothing at all. It went like winking your eye. Here’s how it was. The place we were setting in was dark, like I said, and there was the roots from that old stump sticking up like arms, and there was a watery smell, and the night was like—as if you could put your hand out and feel it—so warm and soft and dark and sweet like an orange. I most cried and I most swore and I most jumped up and danced, I was so mad and happy and sad. When Wilbur come back from being alone with his girl, and she saw him coming, Lucy she says, “we got to go to the train now,” and she was most crying too, but she never knew nothing I knew, and she couldn’t

520 Sherwood Anderson be so all busted up. And then, before Wilbur and Miss Woodbury got up to where we was, she put her face up and kissed me quick and put her head up against me and she was all quivering and— Gee whizz. Sometimes I hope I have cancer and die. I guess you know what I mean. We went in the launch across the bay to the train like that, and it was dark, too. She whispered and said it was like she and I could get out of the boat and walk on the water, and it sounded foolish, but I knew what she meant. And then quick we were right at the depot, and there was a big gang of yaps, the kind that goes to the fairs, and crowded and milling around like cattle, and how could I tell her? “It won’t be long because you’ll write and I’ll write to you.” That’s all she said. I got a chance like a hay barn afire. A swell chance I got. And maybe she would write me, down at Marietta that way, and the letter would come back, and stamped on the front of it by the U.S.A. “there ain’t any such guy,” or something like that, whatever they stamp on a letter that way. And me trying to pass myself off for a bigbug and a swell—to her, as decent a little body as God ever made. Craps amighty—a swell chance I got! And then the train come in, and she got on it, and Wilbur Wessen he come and shook hands with me, and that Miss Woodbury was nice too and bowed to me, and I at her, and the train went and I busted out and cried like a kid. Gee, I could have run after that train and made Dan Patch look like a freight train after a wreck but, socks amighty, what was the use? Did you ever see such a fool? I’ll bet you what—if I had an arm broke right now or a train had run over my foot—I wouldn’t go to no doctor at all. I’d go set down and let her hurt and hurt—that’s what I’d do. I’ll bet you what—if I hadn’t a drunk that booze I’d a never been such a boob as to go tell such a lie—that couldn’t never be made straight to a lady like her. I wish I had that fellow right here that had on a Windsor tie and carried a cane. I’d smash him for fair. Gosh darn his eyes. He’s a big fool—that’s what he is. And if I’m not another you just go find me one and I’ll quit working and be a bum and give him my job. I don’t care nothing for working, and earning money, and saving it for no such boob as myself.

521 Anonymous c. early 13th century Among all the springtime flowers of literature, Aucassin and Nicolette must be counted one of the freshest and most delightful. It has the scent and soft brightness of a May morning. We may thank our luck that we have it at all. Only one manuscript survived from the late thirteenth century. The story probably dates from the early part of that century, in France the heyday of the northern court poets or trouvères, who corresponded to the troubadours of the South. But it is more likely that such a story as Aucassin and Nicolette was composed—or performed, at least—not by trouvères but by the wandering minstrels and mimes called jongleurs. It belongs loosely among what are called the romans d’aventure, the adventure romances or novels. Its form is the chantefable—alternate prose and verse. The prose was recited, the verse sung, and all of it might be acted out “to the accompaniment of viol and pipes.” In short, it is, at its best, almost a rudimentary opera. The music derived from “the most ancient form of popular French melody.” So we have what was in the beginning not a reader’s but a performer’s art. Most of all, it was meant to be light entertainment, and still is. Let us imagine the scene. It is a warm June afternoon in Normandy. Against the gray, rounded bulk of the castle towers, the lord’s household is gathered on the garden terrace. The lord and his lady occupy the highest step. Others sit according to rank below them. The men wear long, colored hose and belted tunics worked with small figures of animals, flowers, or their initial letters. The white kirtles and pointed headdresses of the women ripple softly in the wind off the sea. The garden has a warm smell of roses and gillyflowers.

522 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE The pipes sound. From a corner of the garden the chief jongleur comes bounding out on the flagstones below. He is shabby and impudently gay. He sweeps off his cap, makes his compliments to the company and announces the story. Out behind him come his wife, viol in hand, an old man playing on a pipe, and four singing children. When the song is ended the jongleur takes a step forward and begins: “Now they say and tell and relate. . . .” The battle in the story begins. He acts it out. We see Aucassin, who was “so gracious in all good graces.” We think of Achilles in the Iliad, who also refused to fight because the girl Briseis had been taken away from him. The children come forward and sing the first verse. Aucassin goes into battle and is captured because he can think of nothing but Nicolette. Then, while the audience gasps, he comes to himself, fights his way out, and captures the enemy lord. Then the jongleur’s wife takes over while he speaks the tale behind her. She is Nicolette in her dark chamber, sliding down the twisted sheets from her window and, skirts lifted, running in the night garden. The adventures by land and sea go on. Nicolette sings in her minstrel’s costume, searching for Aucassin. The shadows of the towers fall across the garden. Suddenly it is over, the jongleur is sweeping his bow again and— if he is lucky, and the company pleased—the gold and silver coins rain down on the flagstones at his feet.

523 Aucassin and Nicolette Who will deign to hear the song Solace of a captive’s wrong, Telling how two children met, Aucassin and Nicolette; How by grievous pains distraught, Noble deeds the varlet wrought For his love, and her bright face! Sweet my rhyme, and full of grace, Fair my tale, and debonair. He who lists—though full of care, Sore astonied, much amazed, All cast down, by men mispraised, Sick in body, sick in soul, Hearing shall be glad and whole, So sweet the tale. ow they say and tell and relate: How the Count Bougars of Valence made war on Count Garin of Beaucaire, war so great, so wonderful, and so mortal, that never dawned the day but that he was at the gates and walls and barriers of the town, with a hundred knights and ten thousand men-at-arms, on foot and on horse. So he burned the Count’s land, and spoiled his heritage, and dealt death to his men. The Count Garin of Beaucaire was full of years, and frail; he had long outworn his day. He had no heir, neither son nor daughter, save one only varlet, and he was such as I will tell you. Aucassin was the name of the lad. Fair he was, and pleasant to look

524 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE upon, tall and shapely of body in every whit of him. His hair was golden, and curled in little rings about his head; he had grey and dancing eyes, a clear, oval face, a nose high and comely, and he was so gracious in all good graces that nought in him was found to blame, but good alone. But Love, that high prince, so utterly had cast him down, that he cared not to become knight, neither to bear arms, nor to tilt at tourneys, nor yet to do aught that it became his name to do. His father and his mother spake him thus— “Son, don now thy mail, mount thy horse, keep thy land, and render aid to thy men. Should they see thee amongst them the better will the men-at-arms defend their bodies and their substance, thy fief and mine.” “Father,” said Aucassin, “why speakest thou in such fashion to me? May God give me nothing of my desire if I become knight, or mount to horse, or thrust into the press to strike other or be smitten down, save only that thou give me Nicolette, my sweet friend, whom I love so well.” “Son,” answered the father, “this may not be. Put Nicolette from mind. For Nicolette is but a captive maid, come hither from a far country, and the Viscount of this town bought her with money from the Saracens, and set her in this place. He hath nourished and baptized her, and held her at the font. On a near day he will give her to some young bachelor who will gain her bread in all honour. With this what hast thou to do? Ask for a wife, and I will find thee the daughter of a king, or a count. Were he the richest man in France his daughter shalt thou have, if so thou wilt.” “Faith, my father,” said Aucassin, “what honour of all this world would not Nicolette, my very sweet friend, most richly become! Were she Empress of Byzantium or of Allemaigne, or Queen of France or England, low enough would be her degree, so noble is she, so courteous and debonair, and gracious in all good graces.” Now is sung: Aucassin was of Beaucaire, Of the mighty castle there, But his heart was ever set On his fair friend, Nicolette. Small he heeds his father’s blame, Or the harsh words of his dame. “Fool, to weep the livelong day, Nicolette trips light and gay. Scouring she from far Carthage, Bought of Paynims for a wage. Since a wife beseems thee good

525AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE Take a wife of wholesome blood.” “Mother, naught for this I care, Nicolette is debonair; Slim the body, fair the face, Make my heart a lighted place; Love has set her as my peer, Too sweet, my dear.” Now they say and tell and relate: When the Count Garin of Beaucaire found that in nowise could he withdraw Aucassin his son from the love of Nicolette, he sought out the Viscount of the town, who was his man, and spake him thus— “Sir Count, send Nicolette your god-child straightly from this place. Cursed be the land wherefrom she was carried to this realm; for because of her I lose Aucassin, who will not become knight, nor do aught that it becometh knight to do. Know well that were she once within my power I would hurry her to the fire; and look well to yourself, for you stand in utmost peril and fear.” “Sire,” answered the Viscount, “this lies heavy upon me, that ever Aucassin goes and comes seeking speech with my ward. I have bought her with my money, and nourished and baptized her, and held her at the font. Moreover, I am fain to give her to some young bachelor who will gain her bread in all honour. With this Aucassin your son had nought to do. But since this is your will and your pleasure, I will send her to so far a country that nevermore shall he see her with his eyes.” “Walk warily,” replied the Count Garin, “for great evil easily may fall to you of this.” So they went their ways. Now the Viscount was a very rich man, and had a rich palace standing within a garden. In a certain chamber of an upper floor he set Nicolette in ward, with an old woman to bear her company, and to watch; and he put there bread and meat and wine and all things for their need. Then he placed a seal upon the door, so that none might enter in, nor issue forth, save only that there was a window looking on the garden, strict and close, whereby they breathed a little fresh air. Now is sung: Nicolette is prisoned fast, In a vaulted chamber cast, Shaped and carven wondrous well, Painted as by miracle.

526 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE At the marble casement stayed On her elbow leaned the maid; Golden showed her golden hair, Softly curved her eyebrows rare, Fair her face, and brightly flushed, Sweeter maiden never blushed. In the garden from her room She might watch the roses bloom, Hear the birds make tender moan; Then she knew herself alone. “ ’Lack, great pity ’tis to place Maid in such an evil case. Aucassin, my liege, my squire, Friend, and dear, and heart’s desire, Since thou dost not hate me quite Men have done me foul despite, Sealed me in this vaulted room, Thrust me to this bitter doom. But by God, Our Lady’s Son, Soon will I from here begone, So it be won.” Now they say and tell and relate: Nicolette was prisoned in the chamber, as you have heard and known. The hue and cry went through all the land that Nicolette was stolen away. Some said that she had fled the country, and some that the Count Garin of Beaucaire had done her to death. Whatever man may have rejoiced, Aucassin had no joy therein, so he sought out the Viscount of the town and spake him thus— “Sir Viscount, what have you done with Nicolette, my very sweet friend, the thing that most I love in all the world? Have you borne her off, or hidden her from my sight? Be sure that should I die hereof, my blood will be required of you, as is most just, for I am slain of your two hands, since you steal from me the thing that most I love in all the world.” “Fair sire,” answered the Viscount, “put this from mind. Nicolette is a captive maid whom I brought here from a far country. For her price I trafficked with the Saracens, and I have bred and baptized her, and held her at the font. I have nourished her duly, and on a day will give her to some young bachelor who will gain her bread in honourable fashion. With this you have nought to do; but only to wed the daughter of some count or king. Beyond this, what profit would you have, had you be-

527AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE come her lover, and taken her to your bed? Little enough would be your gain therefrom, for your soul would lie tormented in Hell all the days of all time, so that to Paradise never should you win.” “In Paradise what have I to do? I care not to enter, but only to have Nicolette, my very sweet friend, whom I love so dearly well. For into Paradise go none but such people as I will tell you of. There go those aged priests, and those old cripples, and the maimed, who all day long and all night cough before the altars, and in the crypts beneath the churches; those who go in worn old mantles and old tattered habits; who are naked, and barefoot, and full of sores; who are dying of hunger and of thirst, of cold and of wretchedness. Such as these enter in Paradise, and with them have I nought to do. But in Hell will I go. For to Hell go the fair clerks and the fair knights who are slain in the tourney and the great wars, and the stout archer and the loyal man. With them will I go. And there go the fair and courteous ladies who have friends, two or three, together with their wedded lords. And there pass the gold and the silver, the ermine and all rich furs, harpers and minstrels, and the happy of the world. With these will I go, so only that I have Nicolette, my very sweet friend, by my side.” “Truly,” cried the Viscount, “you talk idly, for never shall you see her more; yea, and if perchance you spoke together, and your father heard thereof, he would burn both me and her in one fire, and yourself might well have every fear.” “This lies heavy upon me,” answered Aucassin. Thus he parted from the Viscount making great sorrow. Now is sung: Aucassin departed thus Sad at heart and dolorous; Gone is she his fairest friend, None may comfort give or mend, None by counsel make good end. To the palace turned he home, Climbed the stair, and sought his room. In the chamber all alone Bitterly he made his moan, Presently began to weep For the love he might not keep. “Nicolette, so gent, so sweet, Fair the faring of thy feet, Fair thy laughter, sweet thy speech,

528 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE Fair our playing each with each, Fair thy clasping, fair thy kiss, Yet it endeth all in this. Since from me my love is ta’en I misdoubt that I am slain; Sister, sweet friend.” Now they say and tell and relate: Whilst Aucassin was in the chamber lamenting Nicolette, his friend, the Count Bougars of Valence, wishful to end the war, pressed on his quarrel, and setting his pikemen and horsemen in array, drew near the castle to take it by storm. Then the cry arose, and the tumult; and the knights and the men-at-arms took their weapons, and hastened to the gates and the walls to defend the castle, and the burgesses climbed to the battlements, flinging quarrels and sharpened darts upon the foe. Whilst the siege was so loud and perilous the Count Garin of Beaucaire sought the chamber where Aucassin lay mourning, assotted upon Nicolette, his very sweet friend, whom he loved so well. “Ha, son,” cried he, “craven art thou and shamed, that seest thy best and fairest castle so hardly beset. Know well that if thou lose it thou art a naked man. Son, arm thyself lightly, mount to horse, keep thy land, aid thy men, hurtle into the press. Thou needest not to strike another, neither to be smitten down, but if they see thee amongst them, the better will they defend their goods and their bodies, thy land and mine. And thou art so stout and strong that very easily thou canst do this thing, as is but right.” “Father,” answered Aucassin, “what sayest thou now? May God give me nought that I require of Him if I become knight, or mount to horse, or thrust into the press to strike knight or be smitten down, save only thou givest me Nicolette, my sweet friend, whom I love so well.” “Son,” replied the father, “this can never be. Rather will I suffer to lose my heritage, and go bare of all, than that thou shouldest have her, either as woman or as dame.” So he turned without farewell. But when Aucassin saw him part he stayed him, saying— “Father, come now, I will make a true bargain with thee.” “What bargain, fair son?” “I will arm me, and thrust into the press on such bargain as this, that if God bring me again safe and sound, thou wilt let me look on Nicolette, my sweet friend, so long that I may have with her two words or three, and kiss her one only time.”

529AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE “I pledge my word to this,” said the father. Of this covenant had Aucassin much joy. Now is sung: Aucassin the more was fain Of the kiss he sought to gain, Rather than his coffers hold A hundred thousand marks of gold. At the call his squire drew near, Armed him fast in battle gear; Shirt and hauberk donned the lad, Laced the helmet on his head, Girt his golden-hilted sword, Came the war-horse at his word, Gripped the buckler and the lance, At the stirrups cast a glance; Then most brave from plume to heel Pricked the charger with the steel, Called to mind his absent dear, Passed the gateway without fear Straight to the fight. Now they say and tell and relate: Aucassin was armed and horsed as you have heard. God! how bravely showed the shield about his neck, the helmet on his head, and the fringes of the baldric upon his left thigh. The lad was tall and strong, slender and comely to look upon, and the steed he bestrode was great and speedy, and fiercely had he charged clear of the gate. Now think not that he sought spoil of oxen and cattle, nor to smite others and himself escape. Nay, but of all this he took no heed. Another was with him, and he thought so dearly upon Nicolette, his fair friend, that the reins fell from his hand, and he struck never a blow. Then the charger, yet smarting from the spur, bore him into the battle, amidst the thickest of the foe, so that hands were laid upon him from every side, and he was made prisoner. Thus they spoiled him of shield and lance, and forthwith led him from the field a captive, questioning amongst themselves by what death he should be slain. When Aucassin marked their words, “Ha, God,” cried he, “sweet Creature, these are my mortal foes who lead me captive, and who soon will strike off my head; and when my head is smitten, never again may I have fair speech with Nicolette, my sweet friend, whom I hold so dear. Yet have I a good sword, and my

530 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE horse is yet unblown. Now if I defend me not for her sake, may God keep her never, should she love me still.” The varlet was hardy and stout, and the charger he bestrode was right fierce. He plucked forth his sword, and smote suddenly on the right hand and on the left, cutting sheer through nasal and headpiece, gauntlet and arm, making such ruin around him as the wild boar deals when brought to bay by hounds in the wood; until he had struck down ten knights, and hurt seven more, and won clear of the melée, and rode back at utmost speed, sword in his hand. The Count Bougars of Valence heard tell that his men were about to hang Aucassin, his foe, in shameful wise, so he hastened to the sight, and Aucassin passed him not by. His sword was yet in hand, and he struck the Count so fiercely upon the helm, that the headpiece was cleft and shattered upon the head. So bewildered was he by the stroke that he tumbled to the ground, and Aucassin stretched forth his hand, and took him, and led him captive by the nasal of the helmet, and delivered him to his father. “Father,” said Aucassin, “behold the foe who wrought such war and mischief upon you! Twenty years hath this war endured, and none was there to bring it to an end.” “Fair son,” replied his father, “better are such deeds as these than foolish dreams.” “Father,” returned Aucassin, “preach me no preachings; but carry out our bargain.” “Ha, what bargain, fair son?” “How now, father, hast thou returned from the market? By my head, I will remember, whosoever may forget; so close is it to my heart. Didst thou not bargain with me when I armed me and fared into the press, that if God brought me again safe and sound, thou wouldst grant me sight of Nicolette, my sweet friend, so long that I might have with her two words or three, and kiss her once? Such was the bargain, so be thou honest dealer.” “I,” cried the father, “God aid me never should I keep such terms. Were she here I would set her in the flames, and thou thyself might well have every fear.” “Is this the very end?” said Aucassin. “So help me God,” said his father; “yea.” “Certes,” said Aucassin, “grey hairs go ill with a lying tongue.” “Count of Valence,” said Aucassin, “thou art my prisoner?” “Sire,” answered the Count, “it is verily and truly so.”

531AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE “Give me thy hand,” said Aucassin. “Sire, as you wish.” So each took the other’s hand. “Plight me thy faith,” said Aucassin, “that so long as thou drawest breath, never shall pass a day but thou shalt deal with my father in shameful fashion, either in goods or person, if so thou canst!” “Sire, for God’s love make me not a jest, but name me a price for my ransom. Whether you ask gold or silver, steed or palfrey, pelt or fur, hawk or hound, it shall be paid.” “What!” said Aucassin; “art thou not my prisoner?” “Truly, sire,” said the Count Bougars. “God aid me never,” quoth Aucassin, “but I send thy head flying, save thou plight me such faith as I said.” “In God’s name,” cried he, “I plight such affiance as seems most meet to thee.” He pledged his troth, so Aucassin set him upon a horse, and brought him into a place of surety, himself riding by his side. Now is sung: When Count Garin knew his son Aucassin still loved but one, That his heart was ever set Fondly on fond Nicolette; Straight a prison he hath found, Paved with marble, walled around, Where in vault beneath the earth Aucassin made little mirth, But with wailing filled his cell In such wise as now I tell. “Nicolette, white lily-flow’r, Sweetest lady found in bow’r; Sweet as grape that brimmeth up Sweetness in the spiced cup. On a day this chanced to you; Out of Limousin there drew One, a pilgrim, sore adread, Lay in pain upon his bed, Tossed, and took with fear his breath, Very dolent, near to death. Then you entered, pure and white, Softly to the sick man’s sight, Raised the train that swept adown,

532 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE Raised the ermine-bordered gown, Raised the smock, and bared to him Daintily each lovely limb. Then a wondrous thing befell, Straight he rose up sound and well, Left his bed, took cross in hand, Sought again his own dear land. Lily-flow’r, so white, so sweet, Fair the faring of thy feet, Fair thy laughter, fair thy speech, Fair our playing each with each. Sweet thy kisses, soft thy touch, All must love thee over much. ’Tis for thee that I am thrown In this vaulted cell alone; ’Tis for thee that I attend Death, that comes to make an end, For thee, sweet friend.” Now they say and tell and relate: Aucassin was set in prison as you have heard tell, and Nicolette for her part was shut in the chamber. It was in the time of summer heat, in the month of May, when the days are warm, long and clear, and the nights coy and serene. Nicolette lay one night sleepless on her bed, and watched the moon shine brightly through the casement, and listened to the nightingale plain in the garden. Then she bethought her of Aucassin, her friend, whom she loved so well. She called also to mind the Count Garin of Beaucaire, her mortal foe, and feared greatly to remain lest her hiding-place should be told to him, and she be put to death in some shameful fashion. She made certain that the old woman who held her in ward was sound asleep. So she rose, and wrapped herself in a very fair silk mantle, the best she had, and taking the sheets from her bed and the towels of her bath, knotted them together to make so long a rope as she was able, tied it about a pillar of the window, and slipped down into the garden. Then she took her skirt in both hands, the one before, and the other behind, and kilted her lightly against the dew which lay thickly upon the grass, and so passed through the garden. Her hair was golden, with little love-locks; her eyes blue and laughing; her face most dainty to see, with lips more vermeil than ever was rose or cherry in the time of summer heat; her teeth white and small; her breasts so firm that they showed beneath her vesture like two rounded nuts; so frail was she about the girdle that your two hands could have spanned her, and the daisies that

533AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE she brake with her feet in passing showed altogether black against her instep and her flesh, so white was the fair young maiden. She came to the postern, and unbarring the gate, issued forth upon the streets of Beaucaire, taking heed to keep within the shadows, for the moon shone very bright, and thus she fared until she chanced upon the tower where her lover was prisoned. The tower was buttressed with pieces of wood in many places, and Nicolette hid herself amongst the pillars, wrapped close in her mantle. She set her face to a crevice of the tower, which was old and ruinous, and there she heard Aucassin weeping within, making great sorrow for the sweet friend whom he held so dear; and when she had hearkened awhile she began to speak. Now is sung: Nicolette, so bright of face, Leaned within this buttressed place, Heard her lover weep within, Marked the woe of Aucassin. Then in words her thought she told, “Aucassin, fond heart and bold, What avails thine heart should ache For a Paynim maiden’s sake. Ne’er may she become thy mate, Since we prove thy father’s hate, Since thy kinsfolk hate me too; What for me is left to do? Nothing, but to seek the strand, Pass o’er sea to some far land.” Shore she then one golden tress, Thrust it in her love’s duress; Aucassin hath seen the gold Shining bright in that dark hold, Took the lock at her behest, Kissed and placed it in his breast, Then once more his eyes were wet For Nicolette. Now they say and tell and relate: When Aucassin heard Nicolette say that she would fare into another country, he was filled with anger. “Fair sweet friend,” said he, “this be far from thee, for then wouldst thou have slain me. And the first man who saw thee, if so he might, would take thee forthwith and carry thee to his bed, and make thee his

534 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE leman. Be sure that if thou wert found in any man’s bed, save it be mine, I should not need a dagger to pierce my heart and slay me. Certes, no; wait would I not for a knife; but on the first wall or the nearest stone would I cast myself, and beat out my brains altogether. Better to die so foul a death as this, than know thee to be in any man’s bed, save mine.” “Aucassin,” said she, “I fear that thou lovest me less than thy words; and that my love is fonder than thine.” “Alack,” cried Aucassin, “fair sweet friend, how can it be that thy love should be so great? Woman cannot love man, as man loves woman; for woman’s love is in the glance of her eye, and the blossom of her breast and the tip of the toe of her foot; but the love of man is set deep in the hold of his heart, from whence it cannot be torn away.” Whilst Aucassin and Nicolette were thus at odds together, the town watch entered the street, bearing naked swords beneath their mantles, for Count Garin had charged them strictly, once she were taken, to put her to death. The warder from his post upon the tower marked their approach, and as they drew near heard them speaking of Nicolette, menacing her with death. “God,” said he, “it is great pity that so fair a damsel should be slain, and a rich alms should I give if I could warn her privily, and so she escape the snare; for of her death Aucassin, my liege, were dead already, and truly this were a piteous case.” Now is sung: Brave the warder, full of guile, Straight he sought some cunning wile; Sought and found a song betime, Raised this sweet and pleasant rhyme. “Lady of the loyal mind, Slender, gracious, very kind, Gleaming head and golden hair, Laughing lips and eyes of vair! Easy, Lady, ’tis to tell Two have speech who love full well. Yet in peril are they met, Set the snare, and spread the net. Lo, the hunters draw this way, Cloaked, with privy knives, to slay. Ere the huntsmen spy the chase Let the quarry haste apace And keep her well.”

535AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE Now they say and tell and relate: “Ah,” said Nicolette, “may the soul of thy father and of thy mother find sweetest rest, since in so fair and courteous a manner hast thou warned me. So God please, I will indeed keep myself close, and may He keep me too.” She drew the folds of her cloak about her, and crouched in the darkness of the pillars till the watch had passed beyond; then she bade farewell to Aucassin, and bent her steps to the castle wall. The wall was very ruinous, and mended with timber, so she climbed the fence, and went her way till she found herself between wall and moat. Gazing below, she saw that the fosse was very deep and perilous, and the maid had great fear. “Ah, God,” cried she, “sweet Creature, should I fall, my neck must be broken; and if I stay, tomorrow shall I be taken, and men will burn my body in a fire. Yet were it better to die, now, in this place, than to be made a show to-morrow in the market.” She crossed her brow, and let herself slide down into the moat, and when she reached the bottom, her fair feet and pretty hands, which had never learned that they could be hurt, were so bruised and wounded that the blood came from them in places a many; yet knew she neither ill nor dolour because of the mightiness of her fear. But if with pain she had entered in, still more it cost her to issue forth. She called to mind that it were death to tarry, and by chance found there a stake of sharpened wood, which those within the keep had flung forth in their defence of the tower. With this she cut herself a foothold, one step above the other, till with extreme labour she climbed forth from the moat. Now the forest lay but the distance of two bolts from a crossbow, and ran some thirty leagues in length and breadth; moreover, within were many wild beasts and serpents. She feared these greatly, lest they should do her a mischief; but presently she remembered that should men lay hands upon her, they would lead her back to the city to burn her at the fire. Now is sung: Nicolette the fair, the fond, Climbed the fosse and won beyond; There she kneeled her, and implored Very help of Christ the Lord. “Father, King of majesty, Where to turn I know not, I. So, within the woodland gloom Wolf and boar and lion roam, Fearful things, with rav’ning maw,

536 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE Rending tusk and tooth and claw. Yet, if all adread I stay, Men will come at break of day, Treat me to their heart’s desire, Burn my body in the fire. But by God’s dear majesty Such a death I will not die; Since I die, ah, better then Trust the boar than trust to men. Since all’s evil, men and beast, Choose I the least.” Now they say and tell and relate: Nicolette made great sorrow in such manner as you have heard. She commended herself to God’s keeping, and fared on until she entered the forest. She kept upon the fringes of the woodland, for dread of the wild beasts and reptiles; she hid herself within some thick bush, sleep overtook her, and she slept fast until six hours of the morn, when shepherds and herdsmen came from the city to lead their flocks to pasture between the wood and the river. The shepherds sat by a clear, sweet spring, which bubbled forth on the outskirts of the greenwood, and spreading a cloak upon the grass, set bread thereon. Whilst they ate together, Nicolette awoke at the song of the birds and the laughter, and hastened to the well. “Fair children,” said she, “God have you in His keeping.” “God bless you also,” answered one who was more fluent of tongue than his companions. “Fair child,” said she, “do you know Aucassin, the son of Count Garin of this realm?” “Yes, we know him well.” “So God keep you, pretty boy,” said she, “as you tell him that within this wood there is a fair quarry for his hunting; and if he may take her he would not part with one of her members for a hundred golden marks, nor for five hundred, nay, nor for aught that man can give.” Then looking upon her steadfastly, their hearts were troubled, the maid was so beautiful. “Will I tell him?” cried he who was readier of word than his companions. “Woe to him who speaks of it ever, or tells Aucassin what you say. You speak not truth but faery, for in all this forest there is no beast—neither stag, nor lion, nor boar—one of whose legs would be worth two pence, or three at the very best, and you talk of five hundred marks of gold. Woe betide him who believes your story, or shall spread it abroad.

537AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE You are a fay, and no fit company for such as us, so pass upon your road.” “Ah, fair child,” answered she, “yet you will do as I pray. For this beast is the only medicine that may heal Aucassin of his hurt. And I have here five sous in my purse, take them, and give him my message. For within three days must he hunt this chase, and if within three days he find not the quarry, never may he cure him of his wound.” “By my faith,” said he, “we will take the money, and if he comes this way we will give him your message, but certainly we will not go and look for him.” “As God pleases,” answered she. So she bade farewell to the shepherds, and went her way. Now is sung: Nicolette as you heard tell Bade the shepherd lads farewell, Through deep woodlands warily Fared she ’neath the leafy tree; Till the grass-grown way she trod Brought her to a forest road, Whence, like fingers on a hand, Forked sev’n paths throughout the land. There she called to heart her love, There bethought her she would prove Whether true her lover’s vows. Plucked she then young sapling boughs, Grasses, leaves that branches yield, Oak shoots, lilies of the field; Built a lodge with frond and flow’r, Fairest mason, fairest bow’r! Swore then by the truth of God Should her lover come that road, Nor for love of her who made Dream a little in its shade, ’Spite his oath no true love, he, Nor fond heart, she. Now they say and tell and relate: Nicolette builded the lodge, as you have heard; very pretty it was and very dainty, and well furnished, both outside and in, with a tapestry of flowers and of leaves. Then she withdrew herself a little way from the bower, and hid within a thicket to spy what Aucassin would do. And the cry and the haro went through all the realm that Nicolette was lost. Some

538 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE had it that she had stolen away, and others that Count Garin had done her to death. Whoever had joy thereof, Aucassin had little pleasure. His father, Count Garin, brought him out of his prison, and sent letters to the lords and ladies of those parts bidding them to a very rich feast, so that Aucassin, his son, might cease to dote. When the feast was at its merriest, Aucassin leaned against the musicians’ gallery, sad and all discomforted. No laugh had he for any jest, since she, whom most he loved, was not amongst the ladies set in hall. A certain knight marked his grief, and coming presently to him, said— “Aucassin, of such fever as yours I, too, have been sick. I can give you good counsel, if you are willing to listen.” “Sir knight,” said Aucassin, “great thanks; good counsel, above all things, I would hear.” “Get to horse,” said he; “take your pleasure in the woodland, amongst flowers and bracken, and the songs of the birds. Perchance, who knows? you may hear some word of which you will be glad.” “Sir knight,” answered Aucassin, “great thanks; this I will do.” He left the hall privily, and went downstairs to the stable where was his horse. He caused the charger to be saddled and bridled, then put foot in stirrup, mounted, and left the castle, riding till he entered the forest, and so by adventure came upon the well whereby the shepherd lads were sitting, and it was then about three hours after noon. They had spread a cloak upon the grass, and were eating their bread, with great mirth and jollity. Now is sung: Round about the well were set Martin, Robin, Esmeret; Jolly shepherds, gaily met, Frulin, Jack and Aubriet. Laughed the one, “God keep in ward Aucassin, our brave young lord. Keep besides the damsel fair, Blue of eye and gold of hair, Gave us wherewithal to buy Cate1 and sheath knife presently, Horn and quarterstaff and fruit, Shepherd’s pipe and country flute; God make him well.” 1. Choice food.

539AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE Now they say and tell and relate: When Aucassin marked the song of the herd-boys he called to heart Nicolette, his very sweet friend, whom he held so dear. He thought she must have passed that way, so he struck his horse with the spurs and came quickly to the shepherds. “Fair children, God keep you.” “God bless you,” replied he who was readier of tongue than his fellows. “Fair children,” said he, “tell over again the song that you told but now.” “We will not tell it,” answered he who was more fluent of speech than the others; “sorrow be his who sings it to you, fair sir.” “Fair children,” returned Aucassin, “do you not know me?” “Oh yes, we know well that you are Aucassin, our young lord; but we are not your men; we belong to the Count.” “Fair children, sing me the song once more, I pray you!” “By the Wounded Heart, what fine words! Why should I sing for you, if I have no wish to do so? Why, the richest man in all the land— saving the presence of Count Garin—would not dare to drive my sheep and oxen and cows from out his wheatfield or his pasture, for fear of losing his eyes. Wherefore, then, should I sing for you, if I have no wish to do so?” “God keep you, fair children; yet you will do this thing for me. Take these ten sous that I have here in my purse.” “Sire, we will take the money; but I will not sing for you, since I have sworn not to do so; but I will tell it in plain prose, if such be your pleasure.” “As God pleases,” answered Aucassin; “better the tale in prose than no story at all.” “Sire, we were in this glade between six and nine of the morn, and were breaking our bread by the well, just as we are doing now, when a girl came by, the loveliest thing in all the world, so fair that we thought her a fay, and she brimmed our wood with light. She gave us money, and made a bargain with us that if you came here we would tell you that you must hunt in this forest, for in it is such a quarry that if you may take her you would not part with one of her members for five hundred silver marks, nor for aught that man can give. For in the quest is so sweet a salve that if you take her you shall be cured of your wound; and within three days must the chase be taken, for if she be not found by then, never will you see her more. Now go to your hunting if you will, and if you will not, let it go, for truly have I carried out my bargain with her.” “Fair children,” cried Aucassin, “enough have you spoken, and may God set me on her track.”

540 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE Now is sung: Aucassin’s fond heart was moved When this hidden word he proved Sent him by the maid he loved. Straight his charger he bestrode, Bade farewell, and swiftly rode Deep within the forest dim, Saying o’er and o’er to him: “Nicolette, so sweet, so good, ’Tis for you I search this wood; Antlered stag nor boar I chase, Hot I follow on your trace. Slender shape and deep, blue eyes, Dainty laughter, low replies, Fledge the arrow in my heart. Ah, to find you, ne’er to part! Pray God give so fair an end, Sister, sweet friend. Now they say and tell and relate: Aucassin rode through the wood in search of Nicolette, and the charger went right speedily. Do not think that the spines and thorns were pitiful to him. Truly it was not so; for his raiment was so torn that the least tattered of his garments could scarcely hold to his body, and the blood ran from his arms and legs and flanks in forty places, or at least in thirty, so that you could have followed after him by the blood which he left upon the grass. But he thought so fondly of Nicolette, his sweet friend, that he felt neither ill nor dolour. Thus all day long he searched the forest in this fashion, but might learn no news of her, and when it drew towards dusk he commenced to weep because he had heard nothing. He rode at adventure down an old grass-grown road, and looking before him saw a young man standing, such as I will tell you. Tall he was, and marvellously ugly and hideous. His head was big and blacker than smoked meat; the palm of your hand could easily have gone between his two eyes; he had very large cheeks and a monstrous flat nose with great nostrils; lips redder than uncooked flesh; teeth yellow and foul; he was shod with shoes and gaiters of bull’s hide, bound about the leg with ropes to well above the knee; upon his back was a rough cloak; and he stood leaning on a huge club. Aucassin urged his steed towards him, but was all afeared when he saw him as he was.

541AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE “Fair brother, God keep you.” “God bless you too,” said he. “As God keeps you, what do you here?” “What is that to you?” said he. “Truly, naught,” answered Aucassin. “I asked with no wish to do you wrong.” “And you, for what cause do you weep?” asked the other, “and make such heavy sorrow? Certainly, were I so rich a man as you are, not the whole world should make me shed a tear.” “Do you know me, then?” said Aucassin. “Yes, well I know you to be Aucassin, the son of the Count, and if you will tell me why you weep, well, then I will tell you what I do here.” “Certes,” said Aucassin, “I will tell you with all my heart. I came this morning to hunt in the forest, and with me a white greyhound, the swiftest in the whole world. I have lost him, and that is why I weep.” “Hear him,” cried he, “by the Sacred Heart, and you make all this lamentation for a filthy dog! Sorrow be his who shall esteem you more. Why, there is not a man of substance in these parts who would not give you ten or fifteen or twenty hounds—if so your father wished—and be right glad to make you the gift. But for my part I have full reason to weep and cry aloud.” “And what is your grief, brother?” “Sire, I will tell you. I was hired by a rich farmer to drive his plough, with a yoke of four oxen. Now three days ago, by great mischance, I lost the best of my bullocks, Roget, the very best ox in the plough. I have been looking for him ever since, and have neither eaten nor drunk for three days, since I dare not go back to the town, because men would put me into prison, as I have no money to pay for my loss. Of all the riches of the world I have nought but the rags upon my back. My poor old mother, too, who had nothing but one worn-out mattress, why, they have taken that from under her, and left her lying on the naked straw. That hurts me more than my own trouble. For money comes and money goes; if I have lost to-day, why, I may win to-morrow; and I will pay for my ox when pay I can. Not for this will I wring my hands. And you—you weep aloud for a filthy cur. Sorrow take him who shall esteem you more.” “Certes, thou art a true comforter, fair brother, and blessed may you be. What is the worth of your bullock?” “Sire, the villein demands twenty sous for his ox. I cannot beat the price down by a single farthing.”

542 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE “Hold out your hand,” said Aucassin; “take these twenty sous which I have in my purse, and pay for your ox.” “Sire,” answered the hind, “many thanks, and God grant you find that for which you seek.” So they parted from each other, and Aucassin rode upon his way. The night was beautiful and still, and so he fared along the forest path until he came to the seven cross-roads where Nicolette had builded her bower. Very pretty it was, and very dainty, and well furnished both outside and in, ceiling and floor, with arras and carpet of freshly plucked flowers; no sweeter habitation could man desire to see. When Aucassin came upon it he reined back his horse sharply, and the moonbeams fell within the lodge. “Dear God,” cried Aucassin, “here was Nicolette, my sweet friend, and this has she builded with her fair white hands. For the sweetness of the house and for love of her, now will I dismount, and here will I refresh me this night.” He withdrew his foot from the stirrup, and the charger was tall and high. He dreamed so deeply on Nicolette, his very sweet friend, that he fell heavily upon a great stone, and his shoulder came from its socket. He knew himself to be grievously wounded, but he forced himself to do all that he was able, and fastened his horse with the other hand to a thorn. Then he turned on his side, and crawled as best he might into the lodge. Looking through a crevice of the bower he saw the stars shining in the sky, and one brighter than all the others, so he began to repeat— Now is sung: Little Star I gaze upon Sweetly drawing to the moon, In such golden haunt is set Love, and bright-haired Nicolette. God hath taken from our war Beauty, like a shining star. Ah, to reach her, though I fell From her Heaven to my Hell. Who were worthy such a thing, Were he emperor or king? Still you shine, oh, perfect Star, Beyond, afar. Now they say and tell and relate: When Nicolette heard Aucassin speak these words she hastened to

543AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE him from where she was hidden near by. She entered in the bower, and clasping her arms about his neck, kissed and embraced him straitly. “Fair sweet friend, very glad am I to find you.” “And you, fair sweet friend, glad am I to meet.” So they kissed, and held each other fast, and their joy was lovely to see. “Ah, sweet friend,” cried Aucassin, “it was but now that I was in grievous pain with my shoulder, but since I hold you close I feel neither sorrow nor wound.” Nicolette searched his hurt, and perceived that the shoulder was out of joint. She handled it so deftly with her white hands, and used such skilful surgery, that by the grace of God (who loveth all true lovers) the shoulder came back to its place. Then she plucked flowers, and fresh grass and green leafage, and bound them tightly about the setting with the hem torn from her shift, and he was altogether healed. “Aucassin,” said she, “fair sweet friend, let us take thought together as to what must be done. If your father beats the wood to-morrow, and men take me, whatever may chance to you, certainly I shall be slain.” “Certes, fair sweet friend, the sorer grief would be mine. But so I may help, never shall you come to his hands.” So he mounted to horse, and setting his love before him, held her fast in his arms, kissing her as he rode, and thus they came forth to the open fields. Now is sung: Aucassin, that loving squire, Dainty fair to heart’s desire, Rode from out the forest dim Clasping her he loved to him. ’Laced upon the saddle bow There he kissed her, chin and brow, There embraced her, mouth and eyes. But she spake him, sweetly wise; “Love, a term to dalliance, Since for us no home in France Seek we Rome or far Byzance?” “Sweet my love, all’s one to me, Dale or woodland, earth or sea; Nothing care I where we ride So I hold you at my side.” So, enlaced, the lovers went, Skirting town and battlement,

544 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE Rocky scaur, and quiet lawn; Till one morning, with the dawn, Broke the cliffs down to the shore, Loud they heard the surges roar, Stood by the sea. Now they say and tell and relate: Aucassin dismounted upon the sand, he and Nicolette together, as you have heard tell. He took his horse by the bridle, and his damsel by the hand, and walked along the beach. Soon they perceived a ship, belonging to merchants of those parts, sailing close by, so Aucassin made signs to the sailors, and presently they came to him. For a certain price they agreed to take them upon the ship, but when they had reached the open sea a great and marvellous storm broke upon the vessel, and drove them from land to land until they drew to a far-off country, and cast anchor in the port of the castle of Torelore. Then they asked to what realm they had fared, and men told them that it was the fief of the King of Torelore. Then inquired Aucassin what manner of man was this King, and whether there was any war, and men answered— “Yes, a mighty war.” So Aucassin bade farewell to the merchants, and they commended him to God. He belted his sword about him, climbed to horse, taking his love before him on the saddle bow, and went his way till he came to the castle. He asked where the King might be found, and was told that he was in childbed. “Where, then, is his wife?” And they answered that she was with the host, and had carried with her all the armed men of those parts. When Aucassin heard these things he marvelled very greatly. He came to the palace door and there dismounted, bidding Nicolette to hold the bridle. Then, making his sword ready, he climbed the palace stair, and searched until he came to the chamber where the King lay. Now is sung: Hot from searching, Aucassin Found the room and entered in; There before the couch he stayed Where the King, alone, was laid, Marked the King, and marked the bed, Marked this lying-in, then said, “Fool, why doest thou this thing?”

545AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE “I’m a mother,” quoth the King: “When my month is gone at length, And I come to health and strength, Then shall I hear Mass once more As my fathers did before, Arm me lightly, take my lance, Set my foe a right fair dance, Where horses prance.” Now they say and tell and relate: When Aucassin heard the King speak thus he took the linen from the bed, and flung it about the chamber. He saw a staff in the corner, so he seized it, returned to the bed, and beat the King so rudely therewith, that he was near to die. “Ha, fair sire,” cried the King, “what do you require of me? Are you mad that you treat me thus in my own house?” “By the Sacred Heart,” said Aucassin, “bad son of a shameless mother, I will strike with the sword if you do not swear to me that man shall never lie in childbed in your realm again.” He plighted troth, and when he was thus pledged, “Sire,” required Aucassin, “bring me now where your wife is with the host.” “Sire, willingly,” said the King. He got to horse, and Aucassin mounted his, leaving Nicolette at peace in the Queen’s chamber. The King and Aucassin rode at adventure until they came to where the Queen was set, and they found that the battle was joined with roasted crab-apples and eggs and fresh cheeses. So Aucassin gazed upon the sight and marvelled greatly. Now is sung: Aucassin hath drawn his rein, From the saddle stared amain, Marked the set and stricken field, Cheered the hearts that would not yield. They had carried to the fight Mushrooms, apples baked aright, And for arrows, if you please, Pelted each with good fresh cheese. He who muddied most the ford Bore the prize in that award. Aucassin, the brave, the true, Watched these deeds of derring do, Laughed loudly too.

546 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE Now they say and tell and relate: When Aucassin saw this strange sight he went to the King and asked of him— “Sire, are these your foes?” “Yea, sire,” answered the King. “And would you that I should avenge you on them?” “Yea,” answered he, “right willingly.” So Aucassin took sword in hand, and throwing himself in the melée, struck fiercely on the right and on the left, and slew many. When the King saw the death that Aucassin dealt he snatched at his bridle and cried— “Hold, fair sire, deal not with them so cruelly.” “What,” said Aucassin, “was it not your wish that I should avenge you on your enemies?” “Sire,” replied the King, “too ready is such payment as yours. It is not our custom, nor theirs, to fight a quarrel to the death.” Thereon the foemen fled the field. The King and Aucassin returned in triumph to the castle of Torelore, and the men of the country persuaded the King that he should cast Aucassin forth from the realm, and give Nicolette to his son, for she seemed a fair woman of high lineage. When Nicolette heard thereof she had little comfort, so began to say— Now is sung: Simple folk, and simple King, Deeming maid so slight a thing. When my lover finds me sweet, Sweetly shapen, brow to feet, Then know I such dalliance, No delight of harp, or dance, Sweetest tune, or fairest mirth, All the play of all the earth Seems aught of worth. [A section of the only Old French manuscript extant is missing at this point.— Editor] Now they say and tell and relate: Aucassin abode in the castle of Torelore in ease and great delight, having with him Nicolette his sweet friend, whom he loved so well. Whilst his days passed in so easy and delightful a manner a great company of Saracens came in galleys oversea and beset the castle, and pres-

547AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE ently took it by storm. They gathered together the spoil, and bore off the townsfolk, both men and women, into captivity. Amongst these were seized Nicolette and Aucassin, and having bound Aucassin, both hands and feet, they flung him into one vessel, and bestowed Nicolette upon another. Thereafter a great tempest arose at sea, and drove these galleys apart. The ship whereon Aucassin lay bound, drifted idly, here and there, on wind and tide, till by chance she went ashore near by the castle of Beaucaire, and the men of that part hurrying to the wreck, found Aucassin, and knew him again. When the men of Beaucaire saw their lord they had much joy, for Aucassin had lived at the castle of Torelore in all ease for three full years, and his father and his mother were dead. They brought him to the castle of Beaucaire, and knelt before him; so held he his realm in peace. Now is sung: Aucassin hath gained Beaucaire, Men have done him homage there; Holds he now in peace his fief, Castellan and count and chief. Yet with heaviness and grief Goeth he in that fair place, Lacking love and one sweet face; Grieving more for one bright head Than he mourneth for his dead. “Dearest love, and lady kind, Treasure I may never find, God hath never made that strand Far o’er sea or long by land, Where I would not seek such prize And merchandise.” Now they say and tell and relate: Now leave we Aucassin and let us tell of Nicolette. The ship which carried Nicolette belonged to the King of Carthage, and he was her father, and she had twelve brothers, all princes or kings in the land. When they saw the beauty of the girl, they made much of her, and bore her in great reverence, and questioned her straitly as to her degree, for certainly she seemed to them a very gracious lady and of high lineage. But she could not tell them aught thereof, for she was but a little child when men sold her into captivity. So the oarsmen rowed until the galley cast anchor beneath the city of Carthage, and when Nicolette gazed on

548 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE the battlements and the country round about, she called to mind that there had she been cherished, and from thence borne away when but an unripe maid; yet she was not snatched away so young but that she could clearly remember that she was the daughter of the King of Carthage, and once was nourished in the city. Now is sung: Nicolette, that maid demure, Set her foot on alien shore; Marked the city fenced with walls, Gazed on palaces and halls. Then she sighed, “Ah, little worth All the pomp of all the earth, Since the daughter of a king, Come of Sultan’s blood, they bring Stripped to market, as a slave. Aucassin, true heart and brave, Sweet thy love upon me steals, Urges, clamours, pleads, appeals; Would to God that peril past In my arms I held you fast; Would to God that in this place We were stayed in one embrace, Fell your kisses on my face, My dear, my fere.” Now they say and tell and relate: When the King of Carthage heard Nicolette speak in this wise he put his arms about her neck. “Fair sweet friend,” said he, “tell me truly who you are, and be not esmayed of me.” “Sire,” answered she, “truly am I daughter to the King of Carthage, and was stolen away when but a little child, full fifteen years ago.” When they heard her say this thing they were assured that her words were true, so they rejoiced greatly, and brought her to the palace in such pomp as became the daughter of a king. They sought to give her some king of those parts as husband and baron, but she had no care to marry. She stayed in the palace three or four days, and considered in her mind by what means she might flee and seek Aucassin. So she obtained a viol, and learned to play thereon; and when on a certain day they would have given her in marriage to a rich king among the Paynim, she rose at night and stole away secretly, wandering until she came to the seaport,

549AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE where she lodged with some poor woman in a house near the shore. There, by means of a herb, she stained her head and face, so that her fairness was all dark and discoloured; and having made herself coat and mantle, shirt and hose, she equipped her in the guise of a minstrel. Then, taking her viol, she sought out a sailor, and persuaded him sweetly to grant her a passage in his ship. They hoisted sail, and voyaged over the rough seas until they came to the land of Provence; and Nicolette set foot on shore, carrying her viol, and fared playing through the country, until she came to the castle of Beaucaire, in the very place where Aucassin was. Now is sung: ’Neath the keep of strong Beaucaire On a day of summer fair, At his pleasure, Aucassin Sat with baron, friend and kin. Then upon the scent of flow’rs, Song of birds, and golden hours, Full of beauty, love, regret, Stole the dream of Nicolette, Came the tenderness of years; So he drew apart in tears. Then there entered to his eyes Nicolette, in minstrel guise, Touched the viol with the bow, Sang as I will let you know. “Lords and ladies, list to me, High and low, of what degree; Now I sing, for your delight, Aucassin, that loyal knight, And his fond friend, Nicolette. Such the love betwixt them set When his kinsfolk sought her head Fast he followed where she fled. From their refuge in the keep Paynims bore them o’er the deep. Nought of him I know to end. But for Nicolette, his friend, Dear she is, desirable, For her father loves her well; Famous Carthage owns him king, Where she has sweet cherishing.

550 AUCA S S I N AN D N ICOLET TE Now, as lord he seeks for her, Sultan, Caliph, proud Emir. But the maid of these will none, For she loves a dansellon, Aucassin, who plighted troth. Sworn has she some pretty oath Ne’er shall she be wife or bride, Never lie at baron’s side Be he denied.” Now they say and tell and relate: When Aucassin heard Nicolette sing in this fashion he was glad at heart, so he drew her aside, and asked— “Fair sweet friend,” said Aucassin, “know you naught of this Nicolette, whose ballad you have sung?” “Sire, truly, yes; well I know her for the most loyal of creatures, and as the most winning and modest of maidens born. She is daughter to the King of Carthage, who took her when Aucassin also was taken, and brought her to the city of Carthage, till he knew for certain that she was his child, whereat he rejoiced greatly. Any day he would give her for husband one of the highest kings in all Spain; but rather would she be hanged or burned than take him, however rich he be.” “Ah, fair sweet friend,” cried the Count Aucassin, “if you would return to that country and persuade her to have speech with me here, I would give you of my riches more than you would dare to ask of me or to take. Know that for love of her I choose not to have a wife, however proud her race, but I stand and wait; for never will there be wife of mine if it be not her, and if I knew where to find her I should not need to grope blindly for her thus.” “Sire,” answered she, “if you will do these things I will go and seek her for your sake, and for hers too; because to me she is very dear.” He pledged his word, and caused her to be given twenty pounds. So she bade him farewell, and he was weeping for the sweetness of Nicolette. And when she saw his tears— “Sire,” said she, “take it not so much to heart; in so short a space will I bring her to this town, and you shall see her with your eyes.” When Aucassin knew this he rejoiced greatly. So she parted from him, and fared in the town to the house of the Viscountess, for the Viscount, her godfather, was dead. There she lodged, and opened her mind fully to the lady on all the business; and the Viscountess recalled the past, and knew well that it was Nicolette whom she had cherished. So she caused

551AU CA S S I N AN D N IC OLETTE Translated by Eugene Mason. the bath to be heated, and made her take her ease for fully eight days. Then Nicolette sought an herb that was called celandine, and washed herself therewith, and became so fair as she had never been before. She arrayed herself in a rich silken gown from the lady’s goodly store; and seated herself in the chamber on a rich stuff of broidered sendal; then she whispered the dame, and begged her to fetch Aucassin, her friend. This she did. When she reached the palace, lo, Aucassin in tears, making great sorrow for the long tarrying of Nicolette, his friend; and the lady called to him, and said— “Aucassin, behave not so wildly; but come with me, and I will show you that thing you love best in all the world; for Nicolette, your sweet friend, is here from a far country to seek her love.” So Aucassin was glad at heart. Now is sung: When he learned that in Beaucaire Lodged his lady, sweet and fair, Aucassin arose, and came To her hostel, with the dame; Entered in, and passed straightway To the chamber where she lay. When she saw him, Nicolette Had such joy as never yet; Sprang she lightly to her feet Swiftly came with welcome meet. When he saw her, Aucassin Oped both arms, and drew her in, Clasped her close in fond embrace, Kissed her eyes and kissed her face. In such greeting sped the night, Till, at dawning of the light, Aucassin, with pomp most rare, Crowned her Countess of Beaucaire. Such delight these lovers met, Aucassin and Nicolette. Length of days and joy did win, Nicolette and Aucassin, Endeth song and tale I tell With marriage bell.

GATEWAY TO THE GREAT BOOKS ROBERT M. HUTCHINS, MORTIMER J. ADLER Editors in Chief CLIFTON FADIMAN Associate Editor JACOB E. SAFRA Chairman, Board of Directors JORG E AG U I LAR- CAUZ, President ENCYCLOPÆDIA BRITAN NICA, INC. C H I C A G O L O N D O N N E W D E L H I PA R I S S E O U L S Y D N E Y TA I P E I T O K Y O 3 I MAG I NATIVE LITE RATU RE

© 1990, 1963 Encyclopædia Britannica, Inc. All rights reserved International Standard Book Number: 978-1-59339-221-5 No part of this work may be reproduced or utilized in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher. The following works in this volume are reprinted under the arrangements listed below: “Billy Budd” reprinted from Billy Budd, Sailor, by Herman Melville, edited by Harrison Hayford and Merton M. Sealts, Jr., by permission of The University of Chicago Press. © 1962 by The University of Chicago. All rights reserved. “The Gentleman from San Francisco” reprinted from The Gentleman from San Francisco by Ivan Bunin, translated by Bernard Guilbert Guerney, by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., and Agence Hoffman. Copyright 1923, 1950 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. “First Love” from Selected Tales of Turgenev, translated by David Magarshack. Copyright © 1960 by David Magarshack. Reprinted by permission of Doubleday & Company, Inc. “White Nights” from Notes from the Underground and Selected Stories by Fyodor Dostoevsky, translated by Andrew R. MacAndrew, copyright © 1961 by Andrew R. MacAndrew, published by arrangement with The New American Library of World Literature, Inc., New York. “The Apple-Tree” (Copyright 1916, 1917 International Magazines Company, Inc.; renewal copyright 1944, 1945 Hearst Magazines) is reprinted with the permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons and William Heinemann Ltd. from Five Tales and Caravan by John Galsworthy. “The Legend of Saint Julian the Hospitaller” reprinted from Three Tales by Gustave Flaubert, translated by Arthur McDowall, by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. Copyright 1924 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. “The Diamond as Big as the Ritz” (Copyright 1922 Smart Set Company, Inc.; renewal copyright 1950 Frances Scott Fitzgerald Lanahan) is reprinted with the permission of Charles Scribner’s Sons and The Bodley Head Ltd. from Tales of the Jazz Age by F. Scott Fitzgerald. “The Darling” from The Portable Chekhov by Avrahm Yarmolinsky. Copyright 1947 by The Viking Press and reprinted by their permission. “The Spinoza of Market Street” reprinted from The Spinoza of Market Street by Isaac Singer, translated by Martha Glicklich and Cecil Hemley, by permission of Farrar, Straus & Cudahy, Inc., and Martin Secker & Warburg Ltd. Copyright © 1958, 1960, 1961 by Isaac Bashevis Singer. “The Queen of Spades” from The Poems, Prose & Plays of Alexander Pushkin, edited by Avrahm Yarmolinsky. Copyright 1936 by Random House, Inc. Reprinted by permission. “The Rocking-Horse Winner” from The Lovely Lady in The Complete Short Stories of D. H. Lawrence. Copyright 1933 by The Estate of D. H. Lawrence, 1960 by Angelo Ravagli and Montague C. Weekly, Executors of the Estate of Frieda Lawrence Ravagli. Reprinted by permission of The Viking Press, Inc. Acknowledgements are made to The Estate of the late Mrs. Frieda Lawrence, Messrs. Laurence Pollinger, Limited, and Messrs. William Heinemann, Limited.

The following works in this volume are reprinted under the arrangements listed below: “The Pupil” by Henry James. Permission granted by John Farquharson Limited, 15 Red Lion Square, London, W.C.1. “Mario and the Magician” reprinted from Stories of Three Decades by Thomas Mann, translated by H. T. Lowe-Porter, by permission of Alfred A. Knopf, Inc., and Martin Secker & Warburg Ltd. Copyright 1931, 1936 by Alfred A. Knopf, Inc. “Sorrow-Acre” from Winter’s Tales, by Isak Dinesen. Copyright 1942 by Random House, Inc. Reprinted by permission of Random House, Inc., and Putnam & Co. Ltd. “The Death of Ivan Ilyitch,” “The Three Hermits,” and “What Men Live By” by Leo Tolstoy, translated by Nathan Haskell Dole, Thomas Y. Crowell Company. Reprinted with permission. Portrait illustrations are by Fred Steffen

iv Contents of Volume 3 S T E P H E N C R A N E 1 The Open Boat 5 H E R M A N M E LV I L L E 27 Billy Budd 31 I VA N B U N I N 99 The Gentleman from San Francisco 102 N AT H A N I E L H AW T H O R N E 124 Rappaccini’s Daughter 128 G E O R G E E L I O T 153 The Lifted Veil 157 L U C I U S A P U L E I U S 194 Cupid and Psyche from The Golden Ass 197 I VA N T U R G E N E V 213 First Love 217

Contents of Volume 3 v F Y O D O R D O S T O E V S KY 272 White Nights 276 J O H N G A L S W O RT H Y 320 The Apple-Tree 323 G U S TAV E F L A U B E R T 368 The Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller 371 F. S C O T T F I T Z G E R A L D 393 The Diamond as Big as the Ritz 397 H O N O R É D E B A L Z A C 432 A Passion in the Desert 436 A N T O N C H E K H O V 448 The Darling 452 I S A A C S I N G E R 463 The Spinoza of Market Street 466 A L E X A N D E R P U S H K I N 481 The Queen of Spades 484 D . H . L AW R E N C E 508 The Rocking-Horse Winner 512 H E N RY J A M E S 526 The Pupil 530 T H O M A S M A N N 569 Mario and the Magician 573

Contents of Volume 3vi I S A K D I N E S E N 611 Sorrow-Acre 615 L E O T O L S T O Y 642 The Death of Ivan Ilyitch 646 The Three Hermits 700 What Men Live By 707

1 Stephen Crane 1871–1900 Stephen Crane, the fourteenth child of a Methodist Episcopalclergyman in Newark, New Jersey, was born on November 1, 1871. He spent one term at Lafayette College and another at Syracuse University, where he played varsity baseball. At that time he began a first novel, later called Maggie. Crane paid for its printing in 1893. Scarcely a copy was sold. He was a thin, blond young man of less than medium height. His gray-blue eyes saw everything. From late 1892 until 1896 he was in and out of New York City. He made an occasional living from newspaper assignments along Park Row. In 1895 a newspaper syndicate sent him on a trip to the West and into Mexico. There he was chased by a “fashionable bandit.” Crane, a good rider, got away. The same year he published The Black Riders, a book of poems, and The Red Badge of Courage, his brilliant novel about the Civil War. (He had never seen a battle.) The Red Badge, hardly noticed at first, reacted to praise from England and went through fourteen American printings in 1896. In that one year The Red Badge, Mag- gie, and the poems came out in England. Another novel, George’s Mother, appeared in London and New York. Crane became the most talked about young writer of his period. Early in 1897 he was aboard the tugboat Commodore, outbound with arms for the Cuban insurgents. She sank off the Florida coast. The Open Boat derived from this misadventure. In Jacksonville he met Cora Stewart, daughter of a Boston artist. She was with him, as perhaps the first woman war correspondent, when he covered the Greco-Turkish War in 1897. Later she became his common-law wife. They settled in England, welcomed by such friends as Harold Frederic, Henry James, and Joseph Conrad.

2 Stephen Crane The Spanish-American War began in April, 1898. Crane, back in New York, was rejected by the Navy. As a correspondent, he got into much of the land fighting around Santiago de Cuba. He was cited for bravery. In January, 1899, he returned to England, where Cora had found an old manor house in Sussex. His last year of work was the final battle in a war against debt, illness, and time. He was taken to a sanitarium in Germany. There he died of tuberculosis, aged twenty-eight, on June 5, 1900. In the delirium of his last illness in the Black Forest, Crane talkedabout “changing places” in the boat. “By the very star of truth,” he had written, “it is easier to steal eggs from under a hen than it was to change seats in the dinghy.” His wife knew what boat he meant. It was a ten-foot dinghy, built for pulling in to the wharf in quiet harbors. It rode the sea, among swells “most wrongfully and barbarously abrupt and tall.” This was the boat that brought Crane and three other men to the beach at Daytona after the sinking of the Commodore. He wrote the story quickly, after the event, in Jacksonville. Conrad, a veteran seaman, thought it a great story; and H. G. Wells said it was “beyond all question, the crown of all his work.” It needs no interpretation. Everything is there, in the story. What could be plainer than this day and night and morning in the indifferent universe of the sea, with life or death at the end of it? It is every man’s life in miniature. Crane caught it when it first took fire in his imagination, while the recollection was still fresh. His all but instinctive sense of form told him where to begin and where to stop. He gives us the tugboat’s sinking in one remembered image: “. . . a stump of a topmast with a white ball on it, that slashed to and fro at the waves, went low and lower, and down.” After that everything is contained in the Greek unities of a boat, four men, the sea, the sky, and the land. Like the poet Rimbaud, Crane deliberately made himself “a testing ground for all the sensations of living.” He was a man who had to Notes from the artist: “. . . a sparse, severe treatment of Stephen Crane as the seeker of human values in a grim, chaotic world . . . Above his head, standing between the Union and Confederate flags, is Henry Fleming, the coward-hero of The Red Badge of Courage.”

4 Stephen Crane find out how things worked and how they felt. The discovery of this truth of feeling was his business, in baseball (he said it had taught him about war), in rowing a dinghy in the open sea, or in war itself. The things that other people dismissed as mere sensation— “sport” or “adventure” or “war”—were simply life to him. He lived them with the same faithful intensity he gave to the observation of a dog’s behavior or a boy’s gang fight. This is what made it possible for Crane to create that sense of the raw world we get in The Open Boat and in the best of his other stories. He was called an “impressionist.” The label was false. He was no passive receiver of impressions. His point of vision, in life as in his stories, was that of a participant in the given action. The “psychology” of the men in The Open Boat is almost purely a matter of dealing with their situation, plus the sense of community that comes out of that. Even the correspondent’s reflections are only an extension of these feelings. Such treatment might have produced a melodrama. It is lifted into art by the detachment of Crane’s style: by the surprises of the poet, the precision of the man of action, the oblique angle of the ironist.

5 The Open Boat A Tale Intended to Be after the Fact: Being the Experience of Four Men from the Sunk Steamer Commodore one of them knew the color of the sky. Their eyes glanced level, and were fastened upon the waves that swept toward them. These waves were of the hue of slate, save for the tops, which were of foaming white, and all of the men knew the colors of the sea. The horizon narrowed and widened, and dipped and rose, and at all times its edge was jagged with waves that seemed thrust up in points like rocks. Many a man ought to have a bathtub larger than the boat which here rode upon the sea. These waves were most wrongfully and barbarously abrupt and tall, and each froth-top was a problem in small-boat navigation. The cook squatted in the bottom, and looked with both eyes at the six inches of gunwale which separated him from the ocean. His sleeves were rolled over his fat forearms, and the two flaps of his unbuttoned vest dangled as he bent to bail out the boat. Often he said, “Gawd! that was a narrow clip.” As he remarked it he invariably gazed eastward over the broken sea. The oiler, steering with one of the two oars in the boat, sometimes raised himself suddenly to keep clear of water that swirled in over the stern. It was a thin little oar, and it seemed often ready to snap. The correspondent, pulling at the other oar, watched the waves and wondered why he was there. The injured captain, lying in the bow, was at this time buried in that

6 Stephen Crane profound dejection and indifference which comes, temporarily at least, to even the bravest and most enduring when, willy-nilly, the firm fails, the army loses, the ship goes down. The mind of the master of a vessel is rooted deep in the timbers of her, though he command for a day or a decade; and this captain had on him the stern impression of a scene in the grays of dawn of seven turned faces, and later a stump of a topmast with a white ball on it, that slashed to and fro at the waves, went low and lower, and down. Thereafter there was something strange in his voice. Although steady, it was deep with mourning, and of a quality beyond oration or tears. “Keep ’er a little more south, Billie,” said he. “A little more south, sir,” said the oiler in the stern. A seat in his boat was not unlike a seat upon a bucking broncho, and by the same token a broncho is not much smaller. The craft pranced and reared and plunged like an animal. As each wave came, and she rose for it, she seemed like a horse making at a fence outrageously high. The manner of her scramble over these walls of water is a mystic thing, and, moreover, at the top of them were ordinarily these problems in white water, the foam racing down from the summit of each wave requiring a new leap, and a leap from the air. Then, after scornfully bumping a crest, she would slide and race and splash down a long incline, and arrive bobbing and nodding in front of the next menace. A singular disadvantage of the sea lies in the fact that after successfully surmounting one wave you discover that there is another behind it just as important and just as nervously anxious to do something effective in the way of swamping boats. In a ten-foot dinghy one can get an idea of the resources of the sea in the line of waves that is not probable to the average experience which is never at sea in a dinghy. As each slaty wall of water approached, it shut all else from the view of the men in the boat, and it was not difficult to imagine that this particular wave was the final outburst of the ocean, the last effort of the grim water. There was a terrible grace in the move of the waves, and they came in silence, save for the snarling of the crests. In the wan light the faces of the men must have been gray. Their eyes must have glinted in strange ways as they gazed steadily astern. Viewed from a balcony, the whole thing would doubtless have been weirdly picturesque. But the men in the boat had no time to see it, and if they had had leisure, there were other things to occupy their minds. The sun swung steadily up the sky, and they knew it was broad day because

7TH E OPE N BOAT the color of the sea changed from slate to emerald green streaked with amber lights, and the foam was like tumbling snow. The process of the breaking day was unknown to them. They were aware only of this effect upon the color of the waves that rolled toward them. In disjointed sentences the cook and the correspondent argued as to the difference between a life-saving station and a house of refuge. The cook had said: “There’s a house of refuge just north of the Mosquito Inlet Light, and as soon as they see us they’ll come off in their boat and pick us up.” “As soon as who see us?” said the correspondent. “The crew,” said the cook. “Houses of refuge don’t have crews,” said the correspondent. “As I understand them, they are only places where clothes and grub are stored for the benefit of shipwrecked people. They don’t carry crews.” “Oh, yes, they do,” said the cook. “No, they don’t,” said the correspondent. “Well, we’re not there yet, anyhow,” said the oiler, in the stern. “Well,” said the cook, “perhaps it’s not a house of refuge that I’m thinking of as being near Mosquito Inlet Light; perhaps it’s a life-saving station.” “We’re not there yet,” said the oiler in the stern. As the boat bounced from the top of each wave the wind tore through the hair of the hatless men, and as the craft plopped her stern down again the spray slashed past them. The crest of each of these waves was a hill, from the top of which the men surveyed for a moment a broad tumultuous expanse, shining and wind-riven. It was probably splendid, it was probably glorious, this play of the free sea, wild with lights of emerald and white and amber. “Bully good thing it’s an on-shore wind,” said the cook. “If not, where would we be? Wouldn’t have a show.” “That’s right,” said the correspondent. The busy oiler nodded his assent. Then the captain, in the bow, chuckled in a way that expressed humor, contempt, tragedy, all in one. “Do you think we’ve got much of a show now, boys?” said he. Whereupon the three were silent, save for a trifle of hemming and hawing. To express any particular optimism at this time they felt to be childish and stupid, but they all doubtless possessed this sense of the

8 Stephen Crane situation in their minds. A young man thinks doggedly at such times. On the other hand, the ethics of their condition was decidedly against any open suggestion of hopelessness. So they were silent. “Oh, well,” said the captain, soothing his children, “we’ll get ashore all right.” But there was that in his tone which made them think; so the oiler quoth, “Yes! if this wind holds.” The cook was bailing. “Yes! if we don’t catch hell in the surf.” Canton-flannel gulls flew near and far. Sometimes they sat down on the sea, near patches of brown seaweed that rolled over the waves with a movement like carpets on a line in a gale. The birds sat comfortably in groups, and they were envied by some in the dinghy, for the wrath of the sea was no more to them than it was to a covey of prairie chickens a thousand miles inland. Often they came very close and stared at the men with black beadlike eyes. At these times they were uncanny and sinister in their unblinking scrutiny, and the men hooted angrily at them, telling them to be gone. One came, and evidently decided to alight on the top of the captain’s head. The bird flew parallel to the boat and did not circle, but made short sidelong jumps in the air in chicken fashion. His black eyes were wistfully fixed upon the captain’s head. “Ugly brute,” said the oiler to the bird. “You look as if you were made with a jackknife.” The cook and the correspondent swore darkly at the creature. The captain naturally wished to knock it away with the end of the heavy painter, but he did not dare do it, because anything resembling an emphatic gesture would have capsized this freighted boat; and so, with his open hand, the captain gently and carefully waved the gull away. After it had been discouraged from the pursuit the captain breathed easier on account of his hair, and others breathed easier because the bird struck their minds at this time as being somehow gruesome and ominous. In the meantime the oiler and the correspondent rowed. And also they rowed. They sat together in the same seat, and each rowed an oar. Then the oiler took both oars; then the correspondent took both oars; then the oiler; then the correspondent. They rowed and they rowed. The very ticklish part of the business was when the time came for the reclining one in the stern to take his turn at the oars. By the very last star of truth, it is easier to steal eggs from under a hen than it was to change seats in the dinghy. First the man in the stern slid his hand along the thwart and moved with care, as if he were of Sèvres. Then the man in the rowing seat slid his hand along the other thwart. It was all done with the most extraordinary care. As the two sidled past each other, the whole party

9TH E OPE N BOAT kept watchful eyes on the coming wave, and the captain cried: “Look out, now! Steady, there!” The brown mats of seaweed that appeared from time to time were like islands, bits of earth. They were traveling, apparently, neither one way nor the other. They were, to all intents, stationary. They informed the man in the boat that it was making progress slowly toward the land. The captain, rearing cautiously in the bow after the dinghy soared on a great swell, said that he had seen the lighthouse at Mosquito Inlet. Presently the cook remarked that he had seen it. The correspondent was at the oars then, and for some reason he too wished to look at the lighthouse; but his back was toward the far shore, and the waves were important, and for some time he could not seize an opportunity to turn his head. But at last there came a wave more gentle than the others, and when at the crest of it he swiftly scoured the western horizon. “See it?” said the captain. “No,” said the correspondent, slowly; “I didn’t see anything.” “Look again,” said the captain. He pointed. “It’s exactly in that direction.” At the top of another wave the correspondent did as he was bid, and this time his eyes chanced on a small, still thing on the edge of the swaying horizon. It was precisely like the point of a pin. It took an anxious eye to find a lighthouse so tiny. “Think well make it, Captain?” “If this wind holds and the boat don’t swamp, we can’t do much else,” said the captain. The little boat, lifted by each towering sea and splashed viciously by the crests, made progress that in the absence of seaweed was not apparent to those in her. She seemed just a wee thing wallowing, miraculously top up, at the mercy of five oceans. Occasionally a great spread of water, like white flames, swarmed into her. “Bail her, cook,” said the captain, serenely. “All right, Captain,” said the cheerful cook. It would be difficult to describe the subtle brotherhood of men that was here established on the seas. No one said that it was so. No one mentioned it. But it dwelt in the boat, and each man felt it warm him. They were a captain, an oiler, a cook, and a correspondent, and they were friends— friends in a more curiously iron-bound degree than may be common. The hurt captain, lying against the water jar in the bow, spoke always in a

10 Stephen Crane low voice and calmly; but he could never command a more ready and swiftly obedient crew than the motley three of the dinghy. It was more than a mere recognition of what was best for the common safety. There was surely in it a quality that was personal and heart-felt. And after this devotion to the commander of the boat, there was this comradeship, that the correspondent, for instance, who had been taught to be cynical of men, knew even at the time was the best experience of his life. But no one said that it was so. No one mentioned it. “I wish we had a sail,” remarked the captain. “We might try my overcoat on the end of an oar, and give you two boys a chance to rest.” So the cook and the correspondent held the mast and spread wide the overcoat; the oiler steered; and the little boat made good way with her new rig. Sometimes the oiler had to scull sharply to keep a sea from breaking into the boat, but otherwise sailing was a success. Meanwhile the lighthouse had been growing slowly larger. It had now almost assumed color, and appeared like a little gray shadow on the sky. The man at the oars could not be prevented from turning his head rather often to try for a glimpse of this little gray shadow. At last, from the top of each wave, the men in the tossing boat could see land. Even as the lighthouse was an upright shadow on the sky, this land seemed but a long black shadow on the sea. It certainly was thinner than paper. “We must be about opposite New Smyrna,” said the cook, who had coasted this shore often in schooners. “Captain, by the way, I believe they abandoned that life-saving station there about a year ago.” “Did they?” said the captain. The wind slowly died away. The cook and the correspondent were not now obliged to slave in order to hold high the oar. But the waves continued their old impetuous swooping at the dinghy, and the little craft, no longer under way, struggled woundily over them. The oiler or the correspondent took the oars again. Shipwrecks are apropos of nothing. If men could only train for them and have them occur when the men had reached pink condition, there would be less drowning at sea. Of the four in the dinghy none had slept any time worth mentioning for two days and two nights previous to embarking in the dinghy, and in the excitement of clambering about the deck of a foundering ship they had also forgotten to eat heartily. For these reasons, and for others, neither the oiler nor the correspondent was fond of rowing at this time. The correspondent wondered ingenuously how in the name of all that was sane could there be people who thought it amusing to row a boat. It was not an amusement; it was a

11TH E OPE N BOAT diabolical punishment, and even a genius of mental aberrations could never conclude that it was anything but a horror to the muscles and a crime against the back. He mentioned to the boat in general how the amusement of rowing struck him, and the weary-faced oiler smiled in full sympathy. Previously to the foundering, by the way, the oiler had worked a double watch in the engine room of the ship. “Take her easy now, boys,” said the captain. “Don’t spend yourselves. If we have to run a surf you’ll need all your strength, because we’ll sure have to swim for it. Take your time.” Slowly the land arose from the sea. From a black line it became a line of black and a line of white—trees and sand. Finally the captain said that he could make out a house on the shore. “That’s the house of refuge, sure,” said the cook. “They’ll see us before long, and come out after us.” The distant lighthouse reared high. “The keeper ought to be able to make us out now, if he’s looking through a glass,” said the captain. “He’ll notify the life-saving people.” “None of those other boats could have got ashore to give word of this wreck,” said the oiler, in a low voice, “else the lifeboat would be out hunting us.” Slowly and beautifully the land loomed out of the sea. The wind came again. It had veered from the northeast to the southeast. Finally a new sound struck the ears of the men in the boat. It was the low thunder of the surf on the shore. “We’ll never be able to make the lighthouse now,” said the captain. “Swing her head a little more north, Billie.” “A little more north, sir,” said the oiler. Whereupon the little boat turned her nose once more down the wind, and all but the oarsman watched the shore grow. Under the influence of this expansion doubt and direful apprehension were leaving the minds of the men. The management of the boat was still most absorbing, but it could not prevent a quiet cheerfulness. In an hour, perhaps, they would be ashore. Their backbones had become thoroughly used to balancing in the boat, and they now rode this wild colt of a dinghy like circus men. The correspondent thought that he had been drenched to the skin, but happening to feel in the top pocket of his coat, he found therein eight cigars. Four of them were soaked with sea water; four were perfectly scatheless. After a search, somebody produced three dry matches; and thereupon the four waifs rode impudently in their little boat and, with an assurance of an impending rescue shining in their eyes, puffed at the big cigars, and judged well and ill of all men. Everybody took a drink of water.

12 Stephen Crane “Cook,” remarked the captain, “there don’t seem to be any signs of life about your house of refuge.” “No,” replied the cook. “Funny they don’t see us!” A broad stretch of lowly coast lay before the eyes of the men. It was of low dunes topped with dark vegetation. The roar of the surf was plain, and sometimes they could see the white lip of a wave as it spun up the beach. A tiny house was blocked out black upon the sky. Southward, the slim lighthouse lifted its little gray length. Tide, wind, and waves were swinging the dinghy northward. “Funny they don’t see us,” said the men. The surf ’s roar was here dulled, but its tone was nevertheles thunderous and mighty. As the boat swam over the great rollers the men sat listening to this roar. “We’ll swamp sure,” said everybody. It is fair to say here that there was not a life-saving station within twenty miles in either direction; but the men did not know this fact, and in consequence they made dark and opprobious remarks concerning the eyesight of the nation’s life-savers. Four scowling men sat in the dinghy and surpassed records in the invention of epithets. “Funny they don’t see us.” The light-heartedness of a former time had completely faded. To their sharpened minds it was easy to conjure pictures of all kinds of incompetency and blindness and, indeed, cowardice. There was the shore of the populous land, and it was bitter and bitter to them that from it came no sign. “Well,” said the captain, ultimately, “I suppose we’ll have to make a try for ourselves. If we stay out here too long, we’ll none of us have strength left to swim after the boat swamps.” And so the oiler, who was at the oars, turned the boat straight for the shore. There was a sudden tightening of muscles. There was some thinking. “If we don’t all get ashore,” said the captain—“if we don’t all get ashore, I suppose you fellows know where to send news of my finish?” They then briefly exchanged some addresses and admonitions. As for the reflections of the men, there was a great deal of rage in them. Perchance they might be formulated thus: “If I am going to be drowned— if I am going to be drowned—if I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees? Was I brought here merely to have my nose dragged away as I was about to nibble the sacred cheese of life? It is preposterous. If this old ninny-woman, Fate, cannot do better

13TH E OPE N BOAT than this, she should be deprived of the management of men’s fortunes. She is an old hen who knows not her intention. If she has decided to drown me, why did she not do it in the beginning and save me all this trouble? The whole affair is absurd.—But no; she cannot mean to drown me. She dare not drown me. She cannot drown me. Not after all this work.” Afterward the man might have had an impulse to shake his fist at the clouds. “Just you drown me, now, and then hear what I call you!” The billows that came at this time were more formidable. They seemed always just about to break and roll over the little boat in a turmoil of foam. There was a preparatory and long growl in the speech of them. No mind unused to the sea would have concluded that the dinghy could ascend these sheer heights in time. The shore was still afar. The oiler was a wily surfman. “Boys,” he said swiftly, “she won’t live three minutes more, and we’re too far out to swim. Shall I take her to sea again, Captain?” “Yes; go ahead!” said the captain. This oiler, by a series of quick miracles and fast and steady oarsmanship, turned the boat in the middle of the surf and took her safely to sea again. There was a considerable silence as the boat bumped over the furrowed sea to deeper water. Then somebody in gloom spoke: “Well, anyhow, they must have seen us from the shore by now.” The gulls went in slanting flight up the wind toward the gray, desolate east. A squall, marked by dingy clouds and clouds brick-red like smoke from a burning building, appeared from the southeast. “What do you think of those life-saving people? Ain’t they peaches?” “Funny they haven’t seen us.” “Maybe they think we’re out here for sport! Maybe they think we’re fishin’. Maybe they think we’re damned fools.” It was a long afternoon. A changed tide tried to force them southward, but wind and wave said northward. Far ahead, where coast line, sea, and sky formed their mighty angle, there were little dots which seemed to indicate a city on the shore. “St. Augustine?” The captain shook his head. “Too near Mosquito Inlet.” And the oiler rowed, and then the correspondent rowed; then the oiler rowed. It was a weary business. The human back can become the seat of more aches and pains than are registered in books for the composite anatomy of a regiment. It is a limited area, but it can become the theatre of innumerable muscular conflicts, tangles, wrenches, knots, and other comforts.

14 Stephen Crane “Did you ever like to row, Billie?” asked the correspondent. “No,” said the oiler; “hang it!” When one exchanged the rowing seat for a place in the bottom of the boat, he suffered a bodily depression that caused him to be careless of everything save an obligation to wiggle one finger. There was cold sea water swashing to and fro in the boat, and he lay in it. His head, pillowed on a thwart, was within an inch of the swirl of a wave crest, and sometimes a particularly obstreperous sea came inboard and drenched him once more. But these matters did not annoy him. It is almost certain that if the boat had capsized he would have tumbled comfortably out upon the ocean as if he felt sure that it was a great soft mattress. “Look! There’s a man on the shore!” “Where?” “There! See ’im? See ’im?” “Yes, sure! He’s walking along.” “Now he’s stopped. Look! He’s facing us!” “He’s waving at us!” “So he is! By thunder!” “Ah, now we’re all right! Now we’re all right! There’ll be a boat out here for us in half an hour.” “He’s going on. He’s running. He’s going up to that house there.” The remote beach seemed lower than the sea, and it required a searching glance to discern the little black figure. The captain saw a floating stick, and they rowed to it. A bath towel was by some weird chance in the boat, and, tying this on the stick, the captain waved it. The oarsman did not dare turn his head, so he was obliged to ask questions. “What’s he doing now?” “He’s standing still again. He’s looking, I think.—There he goes again— toward the house.—Now he’s stopped again.” “Is he waving at us?” “No, not now; he was, though.” “Look! There comes another man!” “He’s running.” “Look at him go, would you!” “Why, he’s on a bicycle. Now he’s met the other man. They’re both waving at us. Look!” “There comes something up the beach.” “What the devil is that thing?” “Why, it looks like a boat.” “Why, certainly, it’s a boat.” “No; it’s on wheels.”

15TH E OPE N BOAT “Yes, so it is. Well, that must be the lifeboat. They drag them along shore on a wagon.” “That’s the lifeboat, sure.” “No, by God, it’s—it’s an omnibus.” “I tell you it’s a lifeboat.” “It is not! It’s an omnibus. I can see it plain. See? One of these big hotel omnibuses.” “By thunder, you’re right. It’s an omnibus, sure as fate. What do you suppose they are doing with an omnibus? Maybe they are going around collecting the life-crew, hey?” “That’s it, likely. Look! There’s a fellow waving a little black flag. He’s standing on the steps of the omnibus. There come those other two fellows. Now they’re all talking together. Look at the fellow with the flag. Maybe he ain’t waving it!” “That ain’t a flag, is it? That’s his coat. Why, certainly, that’s his coat.” “So it is; it’s his coat. He’s taken it off and is waving it around his head. But would you look at him swing it!” “Oh, say, there isn’t any life-saving station there. That’s just a winter- resort hotel omnibus that has brought over some of the boarders to see us drown.” “What’s that idiot with the coat mean? What’s he signaling, anyhow?” “It looks as if he were trying to tell us to go north. There must be a life-saving station up there.” “No; he thinks we’re fishing. Just giving us a merry hand. See? Ah, there, Willie!” “Well, I wish I could make something out of those signals. What do you suppose he means?” “He don’t mean anything; he’s just playing.” “Well, if he’d just signal us to try the surf again, or to go to sea and wait, or go north, or go south, or go to hell, there would be some reason in it. But look at him! He just stands there and keeps his coat revolving like a wheel. The ass!” “There come more people.” “Now there’s quite a mob. Look! Isn’t that a boat?” “Where? Oh, I see where you mean. No, that’s no boat.” “That fellow is still waving his coat.” “He must think we like to see him do that. Why don’t he quit it? It don’t mean anything.” “I don’t know. I think he is trying to make us go north. It must be that there’s a life-saving station there somewhere.” “Say, he ain’t tired yet. Look at ’im wave!”

16 Stephen Crane “Wonder how long he can keep that up. He’s been revolving his coat ever since he caught sight of us. He’s an idiot. Why aren’t they getting men to bring a boat out? A fishing boat—one of those big yawls—could come out here all right. Why don’t he do something?” “Oh, it’s all right now.” “They’ll have a boat out here for us in less than no time, now that they’ve seen us.” A faint yellow tone came into the sky over the low land. The shadows on the sea slowly deepened. The wind bore coldness with it, and the men began to shiver. “Holy smoke!” said one, allowing his voice to express his impious mood, “if we keep on monkeying out here! If we’ve got to flounder out here all night!” “Oh, we’ll never have to stay here all night! Don’t you worry. They’ve seen us now, and it won’t be long before they’ll come chasing out after us.” The shore grew dusky. The man waving a coat blended gradually into this gloom, and it swallowed in the same manner the omnibus and the group of people. The spray, when it dashed uproariously over the side, made the voyagers shrink and swear like men who were being branded. “I’d like to catch the chump who waved the coat. I feel like socking him one, just for luck.” “Why? What did he do?” “Oh, nothing, but then he seemed so damned cheerful.” In the meantime the oiler rowed, and then the correspondent rowed, and then the oiler rowed. Gray-faced and bowed forward, they mechanically, turn by turn, plied the leaden oars. The form of the lighthouse had vanished from the southern horizon, but finally a pale star appeared, just lifting from the sea. The streaked saffron in the west passed before the all-merging darkness, and the sea to the east was black. The land had vanished, and was expressed only by the low and drear thunder of the surf. “If I am going to be drowned—if I am going to be drowned—if I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees? Was I brought here merely to have my nose dragged away as I was about to nibble the sacred cheese of life?” The patient captain, drooped over the water jar, was sometimes obliged to speak to the oarsman. “Keep her head up! Keep her head up!”

17TH E OPE N BOAT “Keep her head up, sir.” The voices were weary and low. This was surely a quiet evening. All save the oarsman lay heavily and listlessly in the boat’s bottom. As for him, his eyes were just capable of noting the tall black waves that swept forward in a most sinister silence, save for an occasional subdued growl of a crest. The cook’s head was on a thwart, and he looked without interest at the water under his nose. He was deep in other scenes. Finally he spoke. “Billie,” he murmured, dreamfully, “what kind of pie do you like best?” “Pie!” said the oiler and the correspondent, agitatedly. “Don’t talk about those things, blast you!” “Well,” said the cook, “I was just thinking about ham sandwiches and—” A night on the sea in an open boat is a long night. As darkness settled finally, the shine of the light, lifting from the sea in the south, changed to full gold. On the northern horizon a new light appeared, a small bluish gleam on the edge of the waters. These two lights were the furniture of the world. Otherwise there was nothing but waves. Two men huddled in the stern, and distances were so magnificent in the dinghy that the rower was enabled to keep his feet partly warm by thrusting them under his companions. Their legs indeed extended far under the rowing seat until they touched the feet of the captain forward. Sometimes, despite the efforts of the tired oarsman, a wave came piling into the boat, an icy wave of the night, and the chilling water soaked them anew. They would twist their bodies for a moment and groan, and sleep the dead sleep once more, while the water in the boat gurgled about them as the craft rocked. The plan of the oiler and the correspondent was for one to row until he lost the ability, and then arouse the other from his sea-water couch in the bottom of the boat. The oiler plied the oars until his head drooped forward and the over- powering sleep blinded him; and he rowed yet afterward. Then he touched a man in the bottom of the boat, and called his name. “Will you spell me for a little while?” he said, meekly. “Sure, Billie,” said the correspondent, awaking and dragging himself to a sitting position. They exchanged places carefully, and the oiler, cuddling down in the sea water at the cook’s side, seemed to go to sleep instantly. The particular violence of the sea had ceased. The waves came without snarling. The obligation of the man at the oars was to keep the boat

18 Stephen Crane headed so that the tilt of the rollers would not capsize her, and to preserve her from filling when the crests rushed past. The black waves were silent and hard to be seen in the darkness. Often one was almost upon the boat before the oarsman was aware. In a low voice the correspondent addressed the captain. He was not sure that the captain was awake, although this iron man seemed to be always awake. “Captain, shall I keep her making for that light north, sir?” The same steady voice answered him. “Yes. Keep it about two points off the port bow.” The cook had tied a life belt around himself in order to get even the warmth which this clumsy cork contrivance could donate, and he seemed almost stovelike when a rower, whose teeth invariably chattered wildly as soon as he ceased his labor, dropped down to sleep. The correspondent, as he rowed, looked down at the two men sleeping underfoot. The cook’s arm was around the oiler’s shoulders, and, with their fragmentary clothing and haggard faces, they were the babes of the sea—a grotesque rendering of the old babes in the wood. Later he must have grown stupid at his work, for suddenly there was a growling of water, and a crest came with a roar and a swash into the boat, and it was a wonder that it did not set the cook afloat in his life belt. The cook continued to sleep, but the oiler sat up, blinking his eyes and shaking with the new cold. “Oh, I’m awful sorry, Billie,” said the correspondent, contritely. “That’s all right, old boy,” said the oiler, and lay down again and was asleep. Presently it seemed that even the captain dozed, and the correspondent thought that he was the one man afloat on all the oceans. The wind had a voice as it came over the waves, and it was sadder than the end. There was a long, loud swishing astern of the boat, and a gleaming trail of phosphorescence, like blue flame, was furrowed on the black waters. It might have been made by a monstrous knife. Then there came a stillness, while the correspondent breathed with open mouth and looked at the sea. Suddenly there was another swish and another long flash of bluish light, and this time it was alongside the boat, and might almost been reached with an oar. The correspondent saw an enormous fin speed like a shadow through the water, hurling the crystalline spray and leaving the long glowing trail. The correspondent looked over his shoulder at the captain. His face

19TH E OPE N BOAT was hidden, and he seemed to be asleep. He looked at the babes of the sea. They certainly were asleep. So, being bereft of sympathy, he leaned a little way to one side and swore softly into the sea. But the thing did not then leave the vicinity of the boat. Ahead or astern, on one side or the other, at intervals long or short, fled the long sparkling streak, and there was to be heard the whirroo of the dark fin. The speed and power of the thing was greatly to be admired. It cut the water like a gigantic and keen projectile. The presence of this biding thing did not affect the man with the same horror that it would if he had been a picnicker. He simply looked at the sea dully and swore in an undertone. Nevertheless, it is true that he did not wish to be alone with the thing. He wished one of his companions to awake by chance and keep him company with it. But the captain hung motionless over the water jar, and the oiler and the cook in the bottom of the boat were plunged in slumber. “If I am going to be drowned—if I am going to be drowned—if I am going to be drowned, why, in the name of the seven mad gods who rule the sea, was I allowed to come thus far and contemplate sand and trees?” During this dismal night, it may be remarked that a man would conclude that it was really the intention of the seven mad gods to drown him, despite the ab ominable injustice of it. For it was certainly an abominable injustice to drown a man who had worked so hard, so hard. The man felt it would be a crime most unnatural. Other people had drowned at sea since galleys swarmed with painted sails, but still— When it occurs to a man that nature does not regard him as important, and that she feels she would not maim the universe by disposing of him, he at first wishes to throw bricks at the temple, and he hates deeply the fact that there are no bricks and no temples. Any visible expression of nature would surely be pelleted with his jeers. Then, if there be no tangible thing to hoot, he feels, perhaps, the desire to confront a personification and indulge in pleas, bowed to one knee, and with hands supplicant, saying, “Yes, but I love myself.” A high cold star on a winter’s night is the word he feels that she says to him. Thereafter he knows the pathos of his situation. The men in the dinghy had not discussed these matters, but each had, no doubt, reflected upon them in silence and according to his

20 Stephen Crane mind. There was seldom any expression upon their faces save the general one of complete weariness. Speech was devoted to the business of the boat. To chime the notes of his emotion, a verse mysteriously entered the correspondent’s head. He had even forgotten that he had forgotten this verse, but it suddenly was in his mind. A soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers; There was lack of woman’s nursing, there was dearth of woman’s tears; But a comrade stood beside him, and he took that comrade’s hand, And he said, “I never more shall see my own, my native land.” In his childhood the correspondent had been made acquainted with the fact that a soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, but he had never regarded the fact as important. Myriads of his school fellows had informed him of the soldier’s plight, but the dinning had naturally ended by making him perfectly indifferent. He had never considered it his affair that a soldier of the Legion lay dying in Algiers, nor had it appeared to him as a matter for sorrow. It was less to him than the breaking of a pencil’s point. Now, however, it quaintly came to him as a human, living thing. It was no longer merely a picture of a few throes in the breast of a poet, meanwhile drinking tea and warming his feet at the grate; it was an actuality—stern, mournful, and fine. The correspondent plainly saw the soldier. He lay on the sand with his feet out straight and still. While his pale left hand was upon his chest in an attempt to thwart the going of his life, the blood came between his fingers. In the far Algerian distance, a city of low square forms was set against a sky that was faint with the last sunset hues. The correspondent, plying the oars and dreaming of the slow and slower movements of the lips of the soldier, was moved by a profound and perfectly impersonal comprehension. He was sorry for the soldier of the Legion who lay dying in Algiers. The thing which had followed the boat and waited had evidently grown bored at the delay. There was no longer to be heard the slash of the cutwater, and there was no longer the flame of the long trail. The light in the north still glimmered, but it was apparently no nearer to the boat. Sometimes the boom of the surf rang in the correspondent’s ears, and he turned the craft seaward then and rowed harder. Southward, some one had evidently built a watch-fire on the beach. It was too low and too far to be seen, but it made a shimmering, roseate reflection upon

21TH E OPE N BOAT the bluff in back of it, and this could be discerned from the boat. The wind came stronger, and sometimes a wave suddenly raged out like a mountain cat, and there was to be seen the sheen and sparkle of a broken crest. The captain, in the bow, moved on his water jar and sat erect. “Pretty long night,” he observed to the correspondent. He looked at the shore. “Those life-saving people take their time.” “Did you see that shark playing around?” “Yes, I saw him. He was a big fellow, all right.” “Wish I had known you were awake.” Later the correspondent spoke into the bottom of the boat. “Billie!” There was a slow and gradual disentanglement. “Billie, will you spell me?” “Sure,” said the oiler. As soon as the correspondent touched the cold, comfortable sea water in the bottom of the boat and had huddled close to the cook’s life belt he was deep in sleep, despite the fact that his teeth played all the popular airs. This sleep was so good to him that it was but a moment before he heard a voice call his name in a tone that demonstrated the last stages of exhaustion. “Will you spell me?” “Sure, Billie.” The light in the north had mysteriously vanished, but the correspondent took his course from the wide-awake captain. Later in the night they took the boat farther out to sea, and the captain directed the cook to take one oar at the stern and keep the boat facing the seas. He was to call out if he should hear the thunder of the surf. This plan enabled the oiler and the correspondent to get respite together. “We’ll give those boys a chance to get into shape again,” said the captain. They curled down and, after a few preliminary chatterings and trembles, slept once more the dead sleep. Neither knew they had bequeathed to the cook the company of another shark, or perhaps the same shark. As the boat caroused on the waves, spray occasionally bumped over the side and gave them a fresh soaking, but this had no power to break their repose. The ominous slash of the wind and the water affected them as it would have affected mummies. “Boys,” said the cook, with the notes of every reluctance in his voice, “she’s drifted in pretty close. I guess one of you had better take her to sea again.” The correspondent, aroused, heard the crash of the toppled crests. As he was rowing, the captain gave him some whisky and water, and

22 Stephen Crane this steadied the chills out of him. “If I ever get ashore and anybody shows me even a photograph of an oar—” At last there was a short conversation. “Billie!—Billie, will you spell me?” “Sure,” said the oiler. When the correspondent again opened his eyes, the sea and the sky were each of the gray hue of the dawning. Later, carmine and gold was painted upon the waters. The morning appeared finally, in its splendor, with a sky of pure blue, and the sunlight flamed on the tips of the waves. On the distant dunes were set many little black cottages, and a tall white windmill reared above them. No man, nor dog, nor bicycle appeared on the beach. The cottages might have formed a deserted village. The voyagers scanned the shore. A conference was held in the boat. “Well,” said the captain, “if no help is coming, we might better try a run through the surf right away. If we stay out here much longer we will be too weak to do anything for ourselves at all.” The others silently acquiesced in this reasoning. The boat was headed for the beach. The correspondent wondered if none ever ascended the tall wind tower, and if then they never looked seaward. This tower was a giant, standing with its back to the plight of the ants. It represented in a degree, to the correspondent, the serenity of nature amid the struggles of the individual—nature in the wind, and nature in the vision of men. She did not seem cruel to him then, nor beneficent, nor treacherous, nor wise. But she was indifferent, flatly indifferent. It is, perhaps, plausible that a man in this situation, impressed with the unconcern of the universe, should see the innumerable flaws of his life, and have them taste wickedly in his mind, and wish for another chance. A distinction between right and wrong seems absurdly clear to him, then, in this new ignorance of the grave edge, and he understands that if he were given another opportunity he would mend his conduct and his words, and be better and brighter during an introduction or at a tea. “Now, boys,” said the captain, “she is going to swamp sure. All we can do is to work her in as far as possible, and then when she swamps, pile out and scramble for the beach. Keep cool now, and don’t jump until she swamps sure.” The oiler took the oars. Over his shoulders he scanned the surf.

23TH E OPE N BOAT “Captain,” he said, “I think I’d better bring her about and keep her head-on to the seas and back her in.” “All right, Billie,” said the captain. “Back her in.” The oiler swung the boat then, and, seated in the stern, the cook and the correspondent were obliged to look over their shoulders to contemplate the lonely and indifferent shore. The monstrous inshore rollers heaved the boat high until the men were again enabled to see the white sheets of water scudding up the slanted beach. “We won’t get in very close,” said the captain. Each time a man could wrest his attention from the rollers, he turned his glance toward the shore, and in the expression of the eyes during this contemplation there was a singular quality. The correspondent, observing the others, knew that they were not afraid, but the full meaning of their glances was shrouded. As for himself, he was too tired to grapple fundamentally with the fact. He tried to coerce his mind into thinking of it, but the mind was dominated at this time by the muscles, and the muscles said they did not care. It merely occurred to him that if he should drown it would be a shame. There were no hurried words, no pallor, no plain agitation. The men simply looked at the shore. “Now, remember to get well clear of the boat when you jump,” said the captain. Seaward the crest of a roller suddenly fell with a thunderous crash, and the long white comber came roaring down upon the boat. “Steady now,” said the captain. The men were silent. They turned their eyes from the shore to the comber and waited. The boat slid up the incline, leaped at the furious top, bounced over it, and swung down the long back of the wave. Some water had been shipped, and the cook bailed it out. But the next crest crashed also. The tumbling, boiling flood of white water caught the boat and whirled it almost perpendicular. Water swarmed in from all sides. The correspondent had his hands on the gunwale at this time, and when the water entered at that place he swiftly withdrew his fingers, as if he objected to wetting them. The little boat, drunken with this weight of water, reeled and snuggled deeper into the sea. “Bail her out, cook! Bail her out!” said the captain. “All right, Captain,” said the cook. “Now, boys, the next one will do for us sure,” said the oiler. “Mind to jump clear of the boat.”

24 Stephen Crane The third wave moved forward, huge, furious, implacable. It fairly swallowed the dinghy, and almost simultaneously the men tumbled into the sea. A piece of life belt had lain in the bottom of the boat, and as the correspondent went overboard he held this to his chest with his left hand. The January water was icy, and he reflected immediately that it was colder than he had expected to find it off the coast of Florida. This appeared to his dazed mind as a fact important enough to be noted at the time. The coldness of the water was sad; it was tragic. This fact was somehow mixed and confused with his opinion of his own situation, so that it seemed almost a proper reason for tears. The water was cold. When he came to the surface he was conscious of little but the noisy water. Afterward he saw his companions in the sea. The oiler was ahead in the race. He was swimming strongly and rapidly. Off to the correspondent’s left, the cook’s great white and corked back bulged out of the water; and in the rear the captain was hanging with his one good hand to the keel of the overturned dinghy. There is a certain immovable quality to a shore, and the correspondent wondered at it amid the confusion of the sea. It seemed also very attractive; but the correspondent knew that it was a long journey, and he paddled leisurely. The piece of life preserver lay under him, and sometimes he whirled down the incline of a wave as if he were on a hand sled. But finally he arrived at a place in the sea where travel was beset with difficulty. He did not pause swimming to inquire what manner of current had caught him, but there his progress ceased. The shore was set before him like a bit of scenery on a stage, and he looked at it and understood with his eyes each detail of it. As the cook passed, much farther to the left, the captain was calling to him, “Turn over on your back, cook! Turn over on your back and use the oar.” “All right, sir.” The cook turned on his back, and, paddling with an oar, went ahead as if he were a canoe. Presently the boat also passed to the left of the correspondent, with the captain clinging with one hand to the keel. He would have appeared like a man raising himself to look over a board fence if it were not for the extraordinary gymnastics of the boat. The correspondent marveled that the captain could still hold to it. They passed on nearer to shore—the oiler, the cook, the captain—and following them went the water jar, bouncing gaily over the seas. The correspondent remained in the grip of this strange new enemy—

25TH E OPE N BOAT a current. The shore, with its white slope of sand and its green bluff topped with little silent cottages, was spread like a picture before him. It was very near to him then, but he was impressed as one who, in a gallery, looks at a scene from Brittany or Algiers. He thought: “I am going to drown? Can it be possible? Can it be possible? Can it be possible?” Perhaps an individual must consider his own death to be the final phenomenon of nature. But later a wave perhaps whirled him out of this small deadly current, for he found suddenly that he could again make progress toward the shore. Later still he was aware that the captain, clinging with one hand to the keel of the dinghy, had his face turned away from the shore and toward him, and was calling his name. “Come to the boat! Come to the boat!” In his struggle to reach the captain and the boat, he reflected that when one gets properly wearied drowning must really be a comfortable arrangement—a cessation of hostilities accompanied by a large degree of relief; and he was glad of it, for the main thing in his mind for some moments had been horror of the temporary agony. He did not wish to be hurt. Presently he saw a man running along the shore. He was undressing with most remarkable speed. Coat, trousers, shirt, everything flew magically off him. “Come to the boat!” called the captain. “All right, Captain.” As the correspondent paddled, he saw the captain let himself down to bottom and leave the boat. Then the correspondent performed his one little marvel of the voyage. A large wave caught him and flung him with ease and supreme speed completely over the boat and far beyond it. It struck him even then as an event in gymnastics and a true miracle of the sea. An overturned boat in the surf is not a plaything to a swimming man. The correspondent arrived in water that reached only to his waist, but his condition did not enable him to stand for more than a moment. Each wave knocked him into a heap, and the undertow pulled at him. Then he saw the man who had been running and undressing, and undressing and running, come bounding into the water. He dragged ashore the cook, and then waded toward the captain; but the captain waved him away and sent him to the correspondent. He was naked— naked as a tree in winter; but a halo was about his head, and he shone like a saint. He gave a strong pull, and a long drag, and a bully heave at the correspondent’s hand. The correspondent, schooled in the minor

26 Stephen Crane formulae, said, “Thanks, old man.” But suddenly the man cried, “What’s that?” He pointed a swift finger. The correspondent said, “Go.” In the shallows, face downward, lay the oiler. His forehead touched sand that was periodically, between each wave, clear of the sea. The correspondent did not know all that transpired afterward. When he achieved safe ground he fell, striking the sand with each particular part of his body. It was as if he had dropped from a roof, but the thud was grateful to him. It seemed that instantly the beach was populated with men with blankets, clothes, and flasks, and women with coffee pots and all the remedies sacred to their minds. The welcome of the land to the men from the sea was warm and generous; but a still and dripping shape was carried slowly up the beach, and the land’s welcome for it could only be the different and sinister hospitality of the grave. When it came night, the white waves paced to and fro in the moonlight, and the wind brought the sound of the great sea’s voice to the men on the shore, and they felt that they could then be interpreters.

27 Herman Melville 1819–1891 Herman Melville, of Scottish, Dutch, and Irish stock, was bornin New York City on August 1, 1819. His father’s business failure and death left Herman’s mother with eight children to bring up. He tried schoolteaching. At nineteen he signed on a Liverpool trader. In January, 1841, he shipped aboard the whaler Acushnet outbound for the South Seas. The following year he and a companion jumped ship at Nukuhiva, in the Marquesas Islands, and lived for a while as compulsory guests of the Taipi tribe. He reached Tahiti aboard the Australian whaler Lucy Ann. After a short imprisonment there, another whaler, Charles and Henry, brought him to Maui in the Hawaiian (then Sandwich) Islands. In Honolulu, on August 17, 1843, he signed on the frigate United States as an ordinary seaman. He saw fourteen months of sea duty and was discharged in Boston. That winter of 1844–45 he began to write Typee. It was published the next year in England and the United States. He was famous at once as “the man who had lived among cannibals.” Omoo appeared in 1847, and was equally popular. He married Elizabeth Shaw, daughter of the Chief Justice of Massachusetts, and joined the New York literary coterie. In 1849 he published Mardi and Redburn. That year he made a brief voyage to England and the Continent. In 1850 White-Jacket appeared. Melville settled near Pittsfield, Massachusetts, where he met Nathaniel Hawthorne and began Moby Dick, his masterpiece. The publication of that work in 1851, and of Pierre a year later, quenched his reputation as a popular writer. Israel Potter, The Piazza Tales, and The Confidence-Man appeared between 1855 and 1857. In 1856 to 1857 Melville traveled in Europe and the Holy Land. He tried lecturing and in 1860 accompanied his brother, master of

28 Herman Melville the clipper ship Meteor, on a voyage to San Francisco. In 1866 he was made a District Inspector of Customs in New York and remained at that post until 1885. During this period he published two volumes of poetry, Battle-Pieces and Clarel. Two others appeared later. Even if he had written nothing else, Moby Dick would have earned him a place among the highest in American and world literature. He died in New York City on September 28, 1891. In the early winter of 1888, Melville set out to write Billy Budd, his last great work. He began a first revision and enlargement in March, 1889. The book, left in an all but final state at his death, remained unpublished until Raymond M.Weaver brought it out in 1924 as a part of his Melville revival. It was later turned into a play, a motion picture, and an opera composed by Benjamin Britten. Many critics have come to regard it as second only to Moby Dick in the Melville canon. It is, like so much of Melville’s work, a story of the sea—and what a story it is! We discover at once, as in Hugo’s account of the cannon adrift or Scott’s The Two Drovers, that the story is inseparable from its meaning. We have hardly got well into it before we begin to ask ourselves questions. We notice that these questions are chiefly ethical and philosophical. What is the nature of good and evil in human beings? Are these qualities inborn or taught? Must we make a distinction between law and justice? If so, which must we observe? Is there a justice according to law and a justice of the heart? Moreover, we observe that these questions originate, not as ideas, but in our feelings about the characters. Claggart, the master-at-arms, falsely denounce s Billy Budd to Captain Vere as a plotter of mutiny. Captain Vere summons Budd to face the charge. He, tongue-tied with horror, strikes out at Claggart and kills him. At once Captain Vere convenes a court-martial to try Budd. Is this proper? The other officers and the surgeon feel that Notes from the artist: “. . . the sea—and some of its imaginary creatures and monsters—flows from the hair and beard of Melville, forming a living part of the author whose works often suggest the strange, fantastic effects of the sea on men’s souls.”

30 Herman Melville the matter should be referred to the admiral. This is evidently in accord with the laws and regulations then in force in the British navy. Harrison Hayford and Merton M. Sealts, Jr., who have made a full study of Billy Budd, and whose text follows, show that the Mutiny Act cited by Melville clearly applied to British land forces, not to the navy. Moreover, naval regulations provided that a death sentence for any act other than mutiny must not be carried out until it had been reviewed and affirmed by the Admiralty or the squadron or fleet commander. Budd is not being tried for any mutinous act—no one, not even Claggart, believed him guilty of that—but for killing an officer. Thus Captain Vere, far from being a letter-of-the-law man, is clearly exceeding his authority in convening a court-martial and executing sentence. More than that, he has made up his mind beforehand that Budd must die. The sentence of the court is in effect a directed verdict. Why? Even if Captain Vere believed that his actions were legal, his great sympathy for Budd—so great, in fact, that the French critic Mayoux has suggested that he might be Budd’s natural father—darkens the mystery. Did he believe that, against the background of recent mutiny, Budd must be made a swift example? How did he know that this would not rouse the crew? We speculate, as Melville intended we should. Is Billy Budd meant to be a Christ figure? Are he and Claggart the respective symbols of good and evil? Is the novel first of all a social criticism of a barbarous time? Or is it Melville’s final “testament of acceptance”? “Acceptance” of injustice in the name of social order? Or is it all meant to be taken as dark irony? We go on questioning. But we notice that, in all our questions, we hold to our feeling of common humanity in the face of every circumstance that threatens it.

31 Billy Budd DE DICATE D TO JACK CHASE E NG LI S H MAN Wherever that great heart may now be Here on Earth or harbored in Paradise Captain of the Maintop in the year 1843 in the U.S. Frigate United States n the time before steamships, or then more frequently than now, a stroller along the docks of any considerable seaport would occasionally have his attention arrested by a group of bronzed mariners, man-of-war’s men or merchant sailors in holiday attire, ashore on liberty. In certain instances they would flank, or like a bodyguard quite surround, some superior figure of their own class, moving along with them like Aldebaran among the lesser lights of his constellation. That signal object was the “Handsome Sailor” of the less prosaic time alike of the military and merchant navies. With no perceptible trace of the vainglorious about him, rather with the offhand unaffectedness of natural regality, he seemed to accept the spontaneous homage of his shipmates. A somewhat remarkable instance recurs to me. In Liverpool, now half a century ago, I saw under the shadow of the great dingy street-wall of Prince’s Dock (an obstruction long since removed) a common sailor so

32 Herman Melville intensely black that he must needs have been a native African of the unadulterate blood of Ham—a symmetric figure much above the average height. The two ends of a gay silk handkerchief thrown loose about the neck danced upon the displayed ebony of his chest, in his ears were big hoops of gold, and a Highland bonnet with a tartan band set off his shapely head. It was a hot noon in July; and his face, lustrous with perspiration, beamed with barbaric good humor. In jovial sallies right and left, his white teeth flashing into view, he rollicked along, the center of a company of his shipmates. These were made up of such an assortment of tribes and complexions as would have well fitted them to be marched up by Anacharsis Cloots before the bar of the first French Assembly as Representatives of the Human Race. At each spontaneous tribute rendered by the wayfarers to this black pagod of a fellow—the tribute of a pause and stare, and less frequently an exclamation—the motley retinue showed that they took that sort of pride in the evoker of it which the Assyrian priests doubtless showed for their grand sculptured Bull when the faithful prostrated themselves. To return. If in some cases a bit of a nautical Murat in setting forth his person ashore, the Handsome Sailor of the period in question evinced nothing of the dandified Billy-be-Dam, an amusing character all but extinct now, but occasionally to be encountered, and in a form yet more amusing than the original, at the tiller of the boats on the tempestuous Erie Canal or, more likely, vaporing in the groggeries along the towpath. Invariably a proficient in his perilous calling, he was also more or less of a mighty boxer or wrestler. It was strength and beauty. Tales of his prowess were recited. Ashore he was the champion; afloat the spokesman; on every suitable occasion always foremost. Close-reefing topsails in a gale, there he was, astride the weather yardarm-end, foot in the Flemish horse as stirrup, both hands tugging at the earing as at a bridle, in very much the attitude of young Alexander curbing the fiery Bucephalus. A superb figure, tossed up as by the horns of Taurus against the thunderous sky, cheerily hallooing to the strenuous file along the spar. The moral nature was seldom out of keeping with the physical make. Indeed, except as toned by the former, the comeliness and power, always attractive in masculine conjunction, hardly could have drawn the sort of honest homage the Handsome Sailor in some examples received from his less gifted associates. Such a cynosure, at least in aspect, and something such too in nature, though with important variations made apparent as the story proceeds, was welkin-eyed Billy Budd—or Baby Budd, as more familiarly, under

33B I LLY B U D D circumstances hereafter to be given, he at last came to be called—aged twenty-one, a foretopman of the British fleet toward the close of the last decade of the eighteenth century. It was not very long prior to the time of the narration that follows that he had entered the King’s service, having been impressed on the Narrow Seas from a homeward-bound English merchantman into a seventy-four outward-bound, H.M.S. Bellipotent; which ship, as was not unusual in those hurried days, having been obliged to put to sea short of her proper complement of men. Plump upon Billy at first sight in the gangway the boarding officer, Lieutenant Ratcliffe, pounced, even before the merchantman’s crew was formally mustered on the quarter-deck for his deliberate inspection. And him only he elected. For whether it was because the other men when ranged before him showed to ill advantage after Billy, or whether he had some scruples in view of the merchantman’s being rather short-handed, however it might be, the officer contented himself with his first spontaneous choice. To the surprise of the ship’s company, though much to the lieutenant’s satisfaction, Billy made no demur. But, indeed, any demur would have been as idle as the protest of a goldfinch popped into a cage. Noting this uncomplaining acquiescence, all but cheerful, one might say, the shipmaster turned a surprised glance of silent reproach at the sailor. The shipmaster was one of those worthy mortals found in every vocation, even the humbler ones—the sort of person whom everybody agrees in calling “a respectable man.” And—nor so strange to report as it may appear to be— though a plowman of the troubled waters, lifelong contending with the intractable elements, there was nothing this honest soul at heart loved better than simple peace and quiet. For the rest, he was fifty or thereabouts, a little inclined to corpulence, a prepossessing face, unwhiskered, and of an agreeable color—a rather full face, humanely intelligent in expression. On a fair day with a fair wind and all going well, a certain musical chime in his voice seemed to be the veritable unobstructed outcome of the innermost man. He had much prudence, much conscientiousness, and there were occasions when these virtues were the cause of overmuch disquietude in him. On a passage, so long as his craft was in any proximity to land, no sleep for Captain Graveling. He took to heart those serious responsibilities not so heavily borne by some shipmasters. Now while Billy Budd was down in the forecastle getting his kit together, the Bellipotent’s lieutenant, burly and bluff, nowise disconcerted by Captain Graveling’s omitting to proffer the customary hospitalities on an occasion so unwelcome to him, an omission simply caused by pre-

34 Herman Melville occupation of thought, unceremoniously invited himself into the cabin, and also to a flask from the spirit locker, a receptacle which his experienced eye instantly discovered. In fact he was one of those sea dogs in whom all the hardship and peril of naval life in the great prolonged wars of his time never impaired the natural instinct for sensuous enjoyment. His duty he always faithfully did; but duty is sometimes a dry obligation, and he was for irrigating its aridity, whensoever possible, with a fertilizing decoction of strong waters. For the cabin’s proprietor there was nothing left but to play the part of the enforced host with whatever grace and alacrity were practicable. As necessary adjuncts to the flask, he silently placed tumbler and water jug before the irrepressible guest. But excusing himself from partaking just then, he dismally watched the unembarrassed officer deliberately diluting his grog a little, then tossing it off in three swallows, pushing the empty tumbler away, yet not so far as to be beyond easy reach, at the same time settling himself in his seat and smacking his lips with high satisfaction, looking straight at the host. These proceedings over, the master broke the silence; and there lurked a rueful reproach in the tone of his voice: “Lieutenant, you are going to take my best man from me, the jewel of ’em.” “Yes, I know,” rejoined the other, immediately drawing back the tumbler preliminary to a replenishing. “Yes, I know. Sorry.” “Beg pardon, but you don’t understand, Lieutenant. See here, now. Before I shipped that young fellow, my forecastle was a rat-pit of quarrels. It was black times, I tell you, aboard the Rights here. I was worried to that degree my pipe had no comfort for me. But Billy came; and it was like a Catholic priest striking peace in an Irish shindy. Not that he preached to them or said or did anything in particular; but a virtue went out of him, sugaring the sour ones. They took to him like hornets to treacle; all but the buffer of the gang, the big shaggy chap with the fire- red whiskers. He indeed, out of envy, perhaps, of the newcomer, and thinking such a “sweet and pleasant fellow,” as he mockingly designated him to the others, could hardly have the spirit of a gamecock, must needs bestir himself in trying to get up an ugly row with him. Billy forebore with him and reasoned with him in a pleasant way—he is something like myself, Lieutenant, to whom aught like a quarrel is hateful—but nothing served. So, in the second dogwatch one day, the Red Whiskers in presence of the others, under pretense of showing Billy just whence a sirloin steak was cut—for the fellow had once been a butcher—insultingly gave him a dig under the ribs. Quick as lightning Billy let fly his arm. I dare say he never meant to do quite as much as he did, but anyhow he

35B I LLY B U D D gave the burly fool a terrible drubbing. It took about half a minute, I should think. And, Lord bless you, the lubber was astonished at the celerity. And will you believe it, Lieutenant, the Red Whiskers now really loves Billy—loves him, or is the biggest hypocrite that ever I heard of. But they all love him. Some of ’em do his washing, darn his old trousers for him; the carpenter is at odd times making a pretty little chest of drawers for him. Anybody will do anything for Billy Budd; and it’s the happy family here. But now, Lieutenant, if that young fellow goes— I know how it will be aboard the Rights. Not again very soon shall I, coming up from dinner, lean over the capstan smoking a quiet pipe—no, not very soon again, I think. Ay, Lieutenant, you are going to take away the jewel of ’em; you are going to take away my peacemaker!” And with that the good soul had really some ado in checking a rising sob. “Well,” said the lieutenant, who had listened with amused interest to all this and now was waxing merry with his tipple; “well, blessed are the peacemakers, especially the fighting peacemakers. And such are the seventy-four beauties some of which you see poking their noses out of the portholes of yonder warship lying to for me,” pointing through the cabin window at the Bellipotent. “But courage! Don’t look so down- hearted, man. Why, I pledge you in advance the royal approbation. Rest assured that His Majesty will be delighted to know that in a time when his hardtack is not sought for by sailors with such avidity as should be, a time also when some shipmasters privily resent the borrowing from them a tar or two for the service, His Majesty, I say, will be delighted to learn that one shipmaster at least cheerfully surrenders to the King the flower of his flock, a sailor who with equal loyalty makes no dissent. But where’s my beauty? Ah,” looking through the cabin’s open door, “here he comes; and, by Jove, lugging along his chest—Apollo with his portmanteau! My man,” stepping out to him, “you can’t take that big box aboard a warship. The boxes there are mostly shot boxes. Put your duds in a bag, lad. Boot and saddle for the cavalryman, bag and hammock for the man-of-war’s man.” The transfer from chest to bag was made. And, after seeing his man into the cutter and then following him down, the lieutenant pushed off from the Rights-of-Man. That was the merchant-ship’s name, though by her master and crew abbreviated in sailor fashion into the Rights. The hardheaded Dundee owner was a staunch admirer of Thomas Paine, whose book in rejoinder to Burke’s arraignment of the French Revolution had then been published for some time and had gone everywhere. In christening his vessel after the title of Paine’s volume the man of Dundee

36 Herman Melville was something like his contemporary shipowner, Stephen Girard of Philadelphia, whose sympathies, alike with his native land and its liberal philosophers, he evinced by naming his ships after Voltaire, Diderot, and so forth. But now, when the boat swept under the merchantman’s stern, and officer and oarsmen were noting—some bitterly and others with a grin— the name emblazoned there, just then it was that the new recruit jumped up from the bow where the coxswain had directed him to sit, and waving hat to his silent shipmates sorrowfully looking over at him from the taff- rail, bade the lads a genial good-by. Then, making a salutation as to the ship herself, “And good-by to you too, old Rights-of-Man.” “Down, Sir!” roared the lieutenant, instantly assuming all the rigor of his rank, though with difficulty repressing a smile. To be sure, Billy’s action was a terrible breach of naval decorum. But in that decorum he had never been instructed; in consideration of which the lieutenant would hardly have been so energetic in reproof but for the concluding farewell to the ship. This he rather took as meant to convey a covert sally on the new recruit’s part, a sly slur at impressment in general, and that of himself in especial. And yet, more likely, if satire it was in effect, it was hardly so by intention, for Billy, though happily endowed with the gaiety of high health, youth, and a free heart, was yet by no means of a satirical turn. The will to it and the sinister dexterity were alike wanting. To deal in double meanings and insinuations of any sort was quite foreign to his nature. As to his enforced enlistment, that he seemed to take pretty much as he was wont to take any vicissitude of weather. Like the animals, though no philosopher, he was, without knowing it, practically a fatalist. And it may be that he rather liked this adventurous turn in his affairs, which promised an opening into novel scenes and martial excitements. Aboard the Bellipotent our merchant sailor was forthwith rated as an able seaman and assigned to the starboard watch of the foretop. He was soon at home in the service, not at all disliked for his unpretentious good looks and a sort of genial happy-go-lucky air. No merrier man in his mess: in marked contrast to certain other individuals included like himself among the impressed portion of the ship’s company; for these when not actively employed were sometimes, and more particularly in the last dog- watch when the drawing near of twilight induced reverie, apt to fall into a saddish mood which in some partook of sullenness. But they were not so young as our foretopman, and no few of them must have known a hearth of some sort, others may have had wives and children left, too

37B I LLY B U D D probably, in uncertain circumstances, and hardly any but must have had acknowledged kith and kin, while for Billy, as will shortly be seen, his entire family was practically invested in himself. Though our new-made foretopman was well received in the top and on the gun decks, hardly here was he that cynosure he had previously been among those minor ship’s companies of the merchant marine, with which companies only had he hitherto consorted. He was young; and despite his all but fully developed frame, in aspect looked even younger than he really was, owing to a lingering adolescent expression in the as yet smooth face all but feminine in purity of natural complexion but where, thanks to his seagoing, the lily was quite suppressed and the rose had some ado visibly to flush through the tan. To one essentially such a novice in the complexities of factitious life, the abrupt transition from his former and simpler sphere to the ampler and more knowing world of a great warship, this might well have abashed him had there been any conceit or vanity in his composition. Among her miscellaneous multitude, the Bellipotent mustered several individuals who however inferior in grade were of no common natural stamp, sailors more signally susceptive of that air which continuous martial discipline and repeated presence in battle can in some degree impart even to the average man. As the Handsome Sailor, Billy Budd’s position aboard the seventy-four was something analogous to that of a rustic beauty transplanted from the provinces and brought into competition with the high-born dames of the court. But this change of circumstances he scarce noted. As little did he observe that something about him provoked an ambiguous smile in one or two harder faces among the bluejackets. Nor less unaware was he of the peculiar favorable effect his person and demeanor had upon the more intelligent gentlemen of the quarter-deck. Nor could this well have been otherwise. Cast in a mold peculiar to the finest physical examples of those Englishmen in whom the Saxon strain would seem not at all to partake of any Norman or other admixture, he showed in face that humane look of reposeful good nature which the Greek sculptor in some instances gave to his heroic strong man, Hercules. But this again was subtly modified by another and pervasive quality. The ear, small and shapely, the arch of the foot, the curve in mouth and nostril, even the indurated hand dyed to the orange-tawny of the toucan’s bill, a hand telling alike of the halyards and tar bucket; but, above all, something in the mobile expression, and every chance attitude and movement, something suggestive of a mother eminently favored by Love

38 Herman Melville and the Graces; all this strangely indicated a lineage in direct contradiction to his lot. The mysteriousness here became less mysterious through a matter of fact elicited when Billy at the capstan was being formally mustered into the service. Asked by the officer, a small, brisk little gentleman as it chanced, among other questions, his place of birth, he replied, “Please, Sir, I don’t know.” “Don’t know where you were born? Who was your father?” “God knows, Sir.” Struck by the straightforward simplicity of these replies, the officer next asked, “Do you know anything about your beginning?” “No, Sir. But I have heard that I was found in a pretty silk-lined basket hanging one morning from the knocker of a good man’s door in Bristol.” “Found, say you? Well,” throwing back his head and looking up and down the new recruit; “well, it turns out to have been a pretty good find. Hope they’ll find some more like you, my man; the fleet sadly needs them.” Yes, Billy Budd was a foundling, a presumable by-blow, and, evidently, no ignoble one. Noble descent was as evident in him as in a blood horse. For the rest, with little or no sharpness of faculty or any trace of the wisdom of the serpent, nor yet quite a dove, he possessed that kind and degree of intelligence going along with the unconventional rectitude of a sound human creature, one to whom not yet has been proffered the questionable apple of knowledge. He was illiterate; he could not read, but he could sing, and like the illiterate nightingale was sometimes the composer of his own song. Of self-consciousness he seemed to have little or none, or about as much as we may reasonably impute to a dog of Saint Bernard’s breed. Habitually living with the elements and knowing little more of the land than as a beach, or, rather, that portion of the terraqueous globe providentially set apart for dance houses, doxies, and tapsters, in short what sailors call a “fiddler’s green,” his simple nature remained unsophisticated by those moral obliquities which are not in every case incompatible with that manufacturable thing known as respectability. But are sailors, frequenters of fiddlers’ greens, without vices? No; but less often than with landsmen do their vices, so called, partake of crookedness of heart, seeming less to proceed from viciousness than exuberance of vitality after long constraint: frank manifestations in accordance with natural law. By his original constitution aided by the co-operating influences of his lot, Billy in many respects was little more than a sort of upright barbarian, much such perhaps as Adam presumably might have been ere the urbane Serpent wriggled himself into his company.

39B I LLY B U D D And here be it submitted that apparently going to corroborate the doctrine of man’s Fall, a doctrine now popularly ignored, it is observable that where certain virtues pristine and unadulterate peculiarly characterize anybody in the external uniform of civilization, they will upon scrutiny seem not to be derived from custom or convention, but rather to be out of keeping with these, as if indeed exceptionally transmitted from a period prior to Cain’s city and citified man. The character marked by such qualities has to an unvitiated taste an untampered-with flavor like that of berries, while the man thoroughly civilized, even in a fair specimen of the breed, has to the same moral palate a questionable smack as of a compounded wine. To any stray inheritor of these primitive qualities found, like Caspar Hauser, wandering dazed in any Christian capital of our time, the good-natured poet’s famous invocation, near two thousand years ago, of the good rustic out of his latitude in the Rome of the Caesars, still appropriately holds: Honest and poor, faithful in word and thought, What hath thee, Fabian, to the city brought? Though our Handsome Sailor had as much of masculine beauty as one can expect anywhere to see; nevertheless, like the beautiful woman in one of Hawthorne’s minor tales, there was just one thing amiss in him. No visible blemish indeed, as with the lady; no, but an occasional liability to a vocal defect. Though in the hour of elemental uproar or peril he was everything that a sailor should be, yet under sudden provocation of strong heart-feeling his voice, otherwise singularly musical, as if expressive of the harmony within, was apt to develop an organic hesitancy, in fact more or less of a stutter or even worse. In this particular Billy was a striking instance that the arch interferer, the envious marplot of Eden, still has more or less to do with every human consignment to this planet of Earth. In every case, one way or another he is sure to slip in his little card, as much as to remind us—I too have a hand here. The avowal of such an imperfection in the Handsome Sailor should be evidence not alone that he is not presented as a conventional hero, but also that the story in which he is the main figure is no romance. At the time of Billy Budd’s arbitrary enlistment into the Bellipotent that ship was on her way to join the Mediterranean fleet. No long time elapsed before the junction was effected. As one of that fleet the seventy- four participated in its movements, though at times on account of her superior sailing qualities, in the absence of frigates, dispatched on separate duty as a scout and at times on less temporary service. But with all

40 Herman Melville this the story has little concernment, restricted as it is to the inner life of one particular ship and the career of an individual sailor. It was the summer of 1797. In the April of that year had occurred the commotion at Spithead followed in May by a second and yet more serious outbreak in the fleet at the Nore. The latter is known, and without exaggeration in the epithet, as “the Great Mutiny.” It was indeed a demonstration more menacing to England than the contemporary manifestoes and conquering and proselyting armies of the French Directory. To the British Empire the Nore Mutiny was what a strike in the fire brigade would be to London threatened by general arson. In a crisis when the kingdom might well have anticipated the famous signal that some years later published along the naval line of battle what it was that upon occasion England expected of Englishmen; that was the time when at the mastheads of the three-deckers and seventy-fours moored in her own roadstead—a fleet the right arm of a Power then all but the sole free conservative one of the Old World—the bluejackets, to be numbered by thousands, ran up with huzzas the British colors with the union and cross wiped out; by that cancellation transmuting the flag of founded law and freedom defined into the enemy’s red meteor of unbridled and unbounded revolt. Reasonable discontent growing out of practical grievances in the fleet had been ignited into irrational combustion as by live cinders blown across the Channel from France in flames. The event converted into irony for a time those spirited strains of Dibdin— as a song writer no mean auxiliary to the English government at that European conjuncture—strains celebrating, among other things, the patriotic devotion of the British tar: “And as for my life, ’tis the King’s!” Such an episode in the Island’s grand naval story her naval historians naturally abridge, one of them (William James) candidly acknowledging that fain would he pass it over did not “impartiality forbid fastidiousness.” And yet his mention is less a narration than a reference, having to do hardly at all with details. Nor are these readily to be found in the libraries. Like some other events in every age befalling states everywhere, including America, the Great Mutiny was of such character that national pride along with views of policy would fain shade it off into the historical background. Such events cannot be ignored, but there is a considerate way of historically treating them. If a well-constituted individual refrains from blazoning aught amiss or calamitous in his family, a nation in the like circumstance may without reproach be equally discreet. Though after parleyings between government and the ringleaders, and concessions by the former as to some glaring abuses, the first uprising—

41B I LLY B U D D that at Spithead—with difficulty was put down, or matters for the time pacified; yet at the Nore the unforeseen renewal of insurrection on a yet larger scale, and emphasized in the conferences that ensued by demands deemed by the authorities not only inadmissible but aggressively insolent, indicated—if the Red Flag did not sufficiently do so—what was the spirit animating the men. Final suppression, however, there was; but only made possible perhaps by the unswerving loyalty of the marine corps and a voluntary resumption of loyalty among influential sections of the crews. To some extent the Nore Mutiny may be regarded as analogous to the distempering irruption of contagious fever in a frame constitutionally sound, and which anon throws it off. At all events, of these thousands of mutineers were some of the tars who not so very long afterwards—whether wholly prompted thereto by patriotism, or pugnacious instinct, or by both—helped to win a coronet for Nelson at the Nile, and the naval crown of crowns for him at Trafalgar. To the mutineers, those battles and especially Trafalgar were a plenary absolution and a grand one. For all that goes to make up scenic naval display and heroic magnificence in arms, those battles, especially Trafalgar, stand unmatched in human annals. In this matter of writing, resolve as one may to keep to the main road, some bypaths have an enticement not readily to be withstood. I am going to err into such a bypath. If the reader will keep me company I shall be glad. At the least, we can promise ourselves that pleasure which is wickedly said to be in sinning, for a literary sin the divergence will be. Very likely it is no new remark that the inventions of our time have at last brought about a change in sea warfare in degree corresponding to the revolution in all warfare effected by the original introduction from China into Europe of gunpowder. The first European firearm, a clumsy contrivance, was, as is well known, scouted by no few of the knights as a base implement, good enough peradventure for weavers too craven to stand up crossing steel with steel in frank fight. But as ashore knightly valor, though shorn of its blazonry, did not cease with the knights, neither on the seas—though nowadays in encounters there a certain kind of displayed gallantry be fallen out of date as hardly applicable under changed circumstances—did the nobler qualities of such naval magnates as Don John of Austria, Doria, Van Tromp, Jean Bart, the long line of British admirals, and the American Decaturs of 1812 become obsolete with their wooden walls. Nevertheless, to anybody who can hold the Present at its worth without

42 Herman Melville being inappreciative of the Past, it may be forgiven, if to such a one the solitary old hulk at Portsmouth, Nelson’s Victory, seems to float there, not alone as the decaying monument of a fame incorruptible, but also as a poetic reproach, softened by its picturesqueness, to the Monitors and yet mightier hulls of the European ironclads. And this not altogether because such craft are unsightly, unavoidably lacking the symmetry and grand lines of the old battleships, but equally for other reasons. There are some, perhaps, who while not altogether inaccessible to that poetic reproach just alluded to, may yet on behalf of the new order be disposed to parry it; and this to the extent of iconoclasm, if need be. For example, prompted by the sight of the star inserted in the Victory’s quarter-deck designating the spot where the Great Sailor fell, these martial utilitarians may suggest considerations implying that Nelson’s ornate publication of his person in battle was not only unnecessary, but not military, nay, savored of foolhardiness and vanity. They may add, too, that at Trafalgar it was in effect nothing less than a challenge to death; and death came; and that but for his bravado the victorious admiral might possibly have survived the battle, and so, instead of having his sagacious dying injunctions overruled by his immediate successor in command, he himself when the contest was decided might have brought his shattered fleet to anchor, a proceeding which might have averted the deplorable loss of life by shipwreck in the elemental tempest that followed the martial one. Well, should we set aside the more than disputable point whether for various reasons it was possible to anchor the fleet, then plausibly enough the Benthamites of war may urge the above. But the might-have-been is but boggy ground to build on. And, certainly, in foresight as to the larger issue of an encounter, and anxious preparations for it—buoying the deadly way and mapping it out, as at Copenhagen—few commanders have been so painstakingly circumspect as this same reckless declarer of his person in fight. Personal prudence, even when dictated by quite other than selfish considerations, surely is no special virtue in a military man; while an excessive love of glory, impassioning a less burning impulse, the honest sense of duty, is the first. If the name Wellington is not so much of a trumpet to the blood as the simpler name Nelson, the reason for this may perhaps be inferred from the above. Alfred [Lord Tennyson] in his funeral ode on the victor of Waterloo ventures not to call him the greatest soldier of all time, though in the same ode he invokes Nelson as “the greatest sailor since our world began.”

43B I LLY B U D D At Trafalgar Nelson on the brink of opening the fight sat down and wrote his last brief will and testament. If under the presentiment of the most magnificent of all victories to be crowned by his own glorious death, a sort of priestly motive led him to dress his person in the jeweled vouchers of his own shining deeds; if thus to have adorned himself for the altar and the sacrifice were indeed vainglory, then affectation and fustian is each more heroic line in the great epics and dramas, since in such lines the poet but embodies in verse those exaltations of sentiment that a nature like Nelson, the opportunity being given, vitalizes into acts. Yes, the outbreak at the Nore was put down. But not every grievance was redressed. If the contractors, for example, were no longer permitted to ply some practices peculiar to their tribe everywhere, such as providing shoddy cloth, rations not sound, or false in the measure, not the less impressment, for one thing, went on. By custom sanctioned for centuries, and judicially maintained by a Lord Chancellor as late as Mansfield, that mode of manning the fleet, a mode now fallen into a sort of abeyance but never formally renounced, it was not practicable to give up in those years. Its abrogation would have crippled the indispensable fleet, one wholly under canvas, no steam power, its innumerable sails and thousands of cannon, everything in short, worked by muscle alone; a fleet the more insatiate in demand for men, because then multiplying its ships of all grades against contingencies present and to come of the convulsed Continent. Discontent foreran the Two Mutinies, and more or less it lurkingly survived them. Hence it was not unreasonable to apprehend some return of trouble sporadic or general. One instance of such apprehensions: In the same year with this story, Nelson, then Rear Admiral Sir Horatio, being with the fleet off the Spanish coast, was directed by the admiral in command to shift his pennant from the Captain to the Theseus; and for this reason: that the latter ship having newly arrived on the station from home, where it had taken part in the Great Mutiny, danger was apprehended from the temper of the men; and it was thought that an officer like Nelson was the one, not indeed to terrorize the crew into base subjection, but to win them, by force of his mere presence and heroic personality, back to an allegiance if not as enthusiastic as his own yet as true. So it was that for a time, on more than one quarter-deck, anxiety did exist. At sea, precautionary vigilance was strained against relapse. At short notice an engagement might come on. When it did, the lieutenants

44 Herman Melville assigned to batteries felt it incumbent on them, in some instances, to stand with drawn swords behind the men working the guns. But on board the seventy-four in which Billy now swung his hammock, very little in the manner of the men and nothing obvious in the demeanor of the officers would have suggested to an ordinary observer that the Great Mutiny was a recent event. In their general bearing and conduct the commissioned officers of a warship naturally take their tone from the commander, that is if he have that ascendancy of character that ought to be his. Captain the Honorable Edward Fairfax Vere, to give his full title, was a bachelor of forty or thereabouts, a sailor of distinction even in a time prolific of renowned seamen. Though allied to the higher nobility, his advancement had not been altogether owing to influences connected with that circumstance. He had seen much service, been in various engagements, always acquitting himself as an officer mindful of the welfare of his men, but never tolerating an infraction of discipline; thoroughly versed in the science of his profession, and intrepid to the verge of temerity, though never injudiciously so. For his gallantry in the West Indian waters as flag lieutenant under Rodney in that admiral’s crowning victory over De Grasse, he was made a post captain. Ashore, in the garb of a civilian, scarce anyone would have taken him for a sailor, more especially that he never garnished unprofessional talk with nautical terms, and grave in his bearing, evinced little appreciation of mere humor. It was not out of keeping with these traits that on a passage when nothing demanded his paramount action, he was the most undemonstrative of men. Any landsman observing this gentleman, not conspicuous by his stature and wearing no pronounced insignia, emerging from his cabin to the open deck, and noting the silent deference of the officers retiring to leeward, might have taken him for the King’s guest, a civilian aboard the King’s ship, some highly honorable discreet envoy on his way to an important post. But in fact this unobtrusiveness of demeanor may have proceeded from a certain unaffected modesty of manhood sometimes accompanying a resolute nature, a modesty evinced at all times not calling for pronounced action, which shown in any rank of life suggests a virtue aristocratic in kind. As with some others engaged in various departments of the world’s more heroic activities, Captain Vere though practical enough upon occasion would at times betray a certain dreaminess of mood. Standing alone on the weather side of the quarter-

45B I LLY B U D D deck, one hand holding by the rigging, he would absently gaze off at the blank sea. At the presentation to him then of some minor matter interrupting the current of his thoughts, he would show more or less irascibility; but instantly he would control it. In the navy he was popularly known by the appellation “Starry Vere.” How such a designation happened to fall upon one who whatever his sterling qualities was without any brilliant ones was in this wise: A favorite kinsman, Lord Denton, a freehearted fellow, had been the first to meet and congratulate him upon his return to England from his West Indian cruise; and but the day previous turning over a copy of Andrew Marvell’s poems had lighted, not for the first time, however, upon the lines entitled “Appleton House,” the name of one of the seats of their common ancestor, a hero in the German wars of the seventeenth century, in which poem occur the lines: This ’tis to have been from the first In a domestic heaven nursed, Under the discipline severe Of Fairfax and the starry Vere. And so, upon embracing his cousin fresh from Rodney’s great victory wherein he had played so gallant a part, brimming over with just family pride in the sailor of their house, he exuberantly exclaimed, “Give ye joy, Ed; give ye joy, my starry Vere!” This got currency, and the novel prefix serving in familiar parlance readily to distinguish the Bellipotent’s captain from another Vere his senior, a distant relative, an officer of like rank in the navy, it remained permanently attached to the surname. In view of the part that the commander of the Bellipotent plays in scenes shortly to follow, it may be well to fill out that sketch of him outlined in the previous chapter. Aside from his qualities as a sea officer Captain Vere was an exceptional character. Unlike no few of England’s renowned sailors, long and arduous service with signal devotion to it had not resulted in absorbing and salting the entire man. He had a marked leaning toward everything intellectual. He loved books, never going to sea without a newly replenished library, compact but of the best. The isolated leisure, in some cases so wearisome, falling at intervals to commanders even during a war cruise, never was tedious to Captain Vere. With nothing of that literary

46 Herman Melville taste which less heeds the thing conveyed than the vehicle, his bias was toward those books to which every serious mind of superior order occupying any active post of authority in the world naturally inclines: books treating of actual men and events no matter of what era—history, biography, and unconventional writers like Montaigne, who, free from cant and convention, honestly and in the spirit of common sense philosophize upon realities. In this line of reading he found confirmation of his own more reserved thoughts—confirmation which he had vainly sought in social converse, so that as touching most fundamental topics, there had got to be established in him some positive convictions which he forefelt would abide in him essentially unmodified so long as his intelligent part remained unimpaired. In view of the troubled period in which his lot was cast, this was well for him. His settled convictions were as a dike against those invading waters of novel opinion, social, political, and otherwise, which carried away as in a torrent no few minds in those days, minds by nature not inferior to his own. While other members of that aristocracy to which by birth he belonged were incensed at the innovators mainly because their theories were inimical to the privileged classes, Captain Vere disinterestedly opposed them not alone because they seemed to him insusceptible of embodiment in lasting institutions, but at war with the peace of the world and the true welfare of mankind. With minds less stored than his and less earnest, some officers of his rank, with whom at times he would necessarily consort, found him lacking in the companionable quality, a dry and bookish gentleman, as they deemed. Upon any chance withdrawal from their company one would be apt to say to another something like this: “Vere is a noble fellow, Starry Vere. ’Spite the gazettes, Sir Horatio” (meaning him who became Lord Nelson) “is at bottom scarce a better seaman or fighter. But between you and me now, don’t you think there is a queer streak of the pedantic running through him? Yes, like the King’s yarn in a coil of navy rope?” Some apparent ground there was for this sort of confidential criticism; since not only did the captain’s discourse never fall into the jocosely familiar, but in illustrating of any point touching the stirring personages and events of the time he would be as apt to cite some historic character or incident of antiquity as he would be to cite from the moderns. He seemed unmindful of the circumstance that to his bluff company such remote allusions, however pertinent they might really be, were altogether alien to men whose reading was mainly confined to the journals. But considerateness in such matters is not easy to natures constituted like Captain Vere’s. Their honesty prescribes to them directness, sometimes far-

47B I LLY B U D D reaching like that of a migratory fowl that in its flight never heeds when it crosses a frontier. The lieutenants and other commissioned gentlemen forming Captain Vere’s staff it is not necessary here to particularize, nor needs it to make any mention of any of the warrant officers. But among the petty officers was one who, having much to do with the story, may as well be forthwith introduced. His portrait I essay, but shall never hit it. This was John Claggart, the master-at-arms. But that sea title may to landsmen seem somewhat equivocal. Originally, doubtless, that petty officer’s function was the instruction of the men in the use of arms, sword or cutlass. But very long ago, owing to the advance in gunnery making hand-to-hand encounters less frequent and giving to niter and sulphur the preeminence over steel, that function ceased; the master-at-arms of a great warship becoming a sort of chief of police charged among other matters with the duty of preserving order on the populous lower gun decks. Claggart was a man about five-and-thirty, somewhat spare and tall, yet of no ill figure upon the whole. His hand was too small and shapely to have been accustomed to hard toil. The face was a notable one, the features all except the chin cleanly cut as those on a Greek medallion; yet the chin, beardless as Tecumseh’s, had something of strange protuberant broadness in its make that recalled the prints of the Reverend Dr. Titus Oates, the historic deponent with the clerical drawl in the time of Charles II and the fraud of the alleged Popish Plot. It served Claggart in his office that his eye could cast a tutoring glance. His brow was of the sort phrenologically associated with more than average intellect; silken jet curls partly clustering over it, making a foil to the pallor below, a pallor tinged with a faint shade of amber akin to the hue of time-tinted marbles of old. This complexion, singularly contrasting with the red or deeply bronzed visages of the sailors, and in part the result of his official seclusion from the sunlight, though it was not exactly displeasing, nevertheless seemed to hint of something defective or abnormal in the constitution and blood. But his general aspect and manner were so suggestive of an education and career incongruous with his naval function that when not actively engaged in it he looked like a man of high quality, social and moral, who for reasons of his own was keeping incog. Nothing was known of his former life. It might be that he was an Englishman; and yet there lurked a bit of accent in his speech suggesting that possibly he was not such by birth, but through naturalization in early childhood. Among certain grizzled sea gossips of the gun decks and

48 Herman Melville forecastle went a rumor perdue that the master-at-arms was a chevalier who had volunteered into the King’s Navy by way of compounding for some mysterious swindle whereof he had been arraigned at the King’s Bench. The fact that nobody could substantiate this report was, of course, nothing against its secret currency. Such a rumor once started on the gun decks in reference to almost anyone below the rank of a commissioned officer would, during the period assigned to this narrative, have seemed not altogether wanting in credibility to the tarry old wiseacres of a man-of-war crew. And indeed a man of Claggart’s accomplishments, without prior nautical experience entering the navy at mature life, as he did, and necessarily allotted at the start to the lowest grade in it; a man too who never made allusion of his previous life ashore; these were circumstances which in the dearth of exact knowledge as to his true antecedents opened to the invidious a vague field for unfavorable surmise. But the sailors’ dogwatch gossip concerning him derived a vague plausibility from the fact that now for some period the British Navy could so little afford to be squeamish in the matter of keeping up the muster rolls that not only were press gangs notoriously abroad both afloat and ashore but there was little or no secret about another matter, namely, that the London police were at liberty to capture any able-bodied suspect, any questionable fellow at large, and summarily ship him to the dockyard or fleet. Furthermore, even among voluntary enlistments there were instances where the motive thereto partook neither of patriotic impulse nor yet of a random desire to experience a bit of sea life and martial adventure. Insolvent debtors of minor grade, together with the promiscuous lame ducks of morality, found in the navy a convenient and secure refuge, secure because, once enlisted aboard a King’s ship, they were as much in sanctuary as the transgressor of the Middle Ages harboring himself under the shadow of the altar. Such sanctioned irregularities, which for obvious reasons the government would hardly think to parade at the time and which consequently, and as affecting the least influential class of mankind, have all but dropped into oblivion, lend color to something for the truth whereof I do not vouch, and hence have some scruple in stating; something I remember having seen in print though the book I cannot recall; but the same thing was personally communicated to me now more than forty years ago by an old pensioner in a cocked hat with whom I had a most interesting talk on the terrace at Greenwich, a Baltimore Negro, a Trafalgar man. It was to this effect: In the case of a warship short of hands whose speedy sailing was imperative, the deficient quota, in lack of any other way of making it good,

49B I LLY B U D D would be eked out by drafts culled direct from the jails. For reasons previously suggested it would not perhaps be easy at the present day directly to prove or disprove the allegation. But allowed as a verity, how significant would it be of England’s straits at the time confronted by those wars which like a flight of harpies rose shrieking from the din and dust of the fallen Bastille. That era appears measurably clear to us who look back at it, and but read of it. But to the grandfathers of us graybeards, the more thoughtful of them, the genius of it presented an aspect like that of Camoëns’ Spirit of the Cape, an eclipsing menace mysterious and prodigious. Not America was exempt from apprehension. At the height of Napoleon’s unexampled conquests, there were Americans who had fought at Bunker Hill who looked forward to the possibility that the Atlantic might prove no barrier against the ultimate schemes of this French portentous upstart from the revolutionary chaos who seemed in act of fulfilling judgment prefigured in the Apocalypse. But the less credence was to be given to the gun-deck talk touching Claggart, seeing that no man holding his office in a man-of-war can ever hope to be popular with the crew. Besides, in derogatory comments upon anyone against whom they have a grudge, or for any reason or no reason mislike, sailors are much like landsmen: they are apt to exaggerate or romance it. About as much was really known to the Bellipotent’s tars of the master- at-arms’ career before entering the service as an astronomer knows about a comet’s travels prior to its first observable appearance in the sky. The verdict of the sea quidnuncs has been cited only by way of showing what sort of moral impression the man made upon rude uncultivated natures whose conceptions of human wickedness were necessarily of the narrowest, limited to ideas of vulgar rascality—a thief among the swinging hammocks during a night watch, or the man brokers and land sharks of the seaports. It was no gossip, however, but fact that though, as before hinted, Claggart upon his entrance into the navy was, as a novice, assigned to the least honorable section of a man-of-war’s crew, embracing the drudgery, he did not long remain there. The superior capacity he immediately evinced, his constitutional sobriety, an ingratiating deference to superiors, together with a peculiar ferreting genius manifested on a singular occasion; all this, capped by a certain austere patriotism, abruptly advanced him to the position of master-at-arms. Of this maritime chief of police the ship’s corporals, so called, were the immediate subordinates, and compliant ones; and this, as is to be

50 Herman Melville noted in some business departments ashore, almost to a degree inconsistent with entire moral volition. His place put various converging wires of underground influence under the chief’s control, capable when astutely worked through his understrappers of operating to the mysterious discomfort, if nothing worse, of any of the sea commonalty. Life in the foretop well agreed with Billy Budd. There, when not actually engaged on the yards yet higher aloft, the topmen, who as such had been picked out for youth and activity, constituted an aerial club lounging at ease against the smaller stunsails rolled up into cushions, spinning yarns like the lazy gods, and frequently amused with what was going on in the busy world of the decks below. No wonder then that a young fellow of Billy’s disposition was well content in such society. Giving no cause of offense to anybody, he was always alert at a call. So in the merchant service it had been with him. But now such a punctiliousness in duty was shown that his topmates would sometimes good-naturedly laugh at him for it. This heightened alacrity had its cause, namely, the impression made upon him by the first formal gangway-punishment he had ever witnessed, which befell the day following his impressment. It had been incurred by a little fellow, young, a novice after-guardsman absent from his assigned post when the ship was being put about; a dereliction resulting in a rather serious hitch to that maneuver, one demanding instantaneous promptitude in letting go and making fast. When Billy saw the culprit’s naked back under the scourge, gridironed with red welts and worse, when he marked the dire expression in the liberated man’s face as with his woolen shirt flung over him by the executioner he rushed forward from the spot to bury himself in the crowd, Billy was horrified. He resolved that never through remissness would he make himself liable to such a visitation or do or omit aught that might merit even verbal reproof. What then was his surprise and concern when ultimately he found himself getting into petty trouble occasionally about such matters as the stowage of his bag or something amiss in his hammock, matters under the police oversight of the ship’s corporals of the lower decks, and which brought down on him a vague threat from one of them. So heedful in all things as he was, how could this be? He could not understand it, and it more than vexed him. When he spoke to his young topmates about it they were either lightly incredulous or found something comical in his unconcealed anxiety. “Is it your bag, Billy?” said one. “Well, sew yourself up in it, bully boy, and then you’ll be sure to know if anybody meddles with it.”

51B I LLY B U D D Now there was a veteran aboard who because his years began to disqualify him for more active work had been recently assigned duty as mainmastman in his watch, looking to the gear belayed at the rail round-about that great spar near the deck. At off-times the foretopman had picked up some acquaintance with him, and now in his trouble it occurred to him that he might be the sort of person to go to for wise counsel. He was an old Dansker [Dane] long anglicized in the service, of few words, many wrinkles, and some honorable scars. His wizened face, time-tinted and weather-stained to the complexion of an antique parchment, was here and there peppered blue by the chance explosion of a gun cartridge in action. He was an Agamemnon man, some two years prior to the time of this story having served under Nelson when still captain in that ship immortal in naval memory, which dismantled and in part broken up to her bare ribs is seen a grand skeleton in Haden’s etching. As one of a boarding party from the Agamemnon he had received a cut slantwise along one temple and cheek, leaving a long pale scar like a streak of dawn’s light falling athwart the dark visage. It was on account of that scar and the affair in which it was known that he had received it, as well as from his blue-peppered complexion, that the Dansker went among the Bellipotent’s crew by the name of Board-Her-in-the-Smoke. Now the first time that his small weasel eyes happened to light on Billy Budd, a certain grim internal merriment set all his ancient wrinkles into antic play. Was it that his eccentric unsentimental old sapience, primitive in its kind, saw or thought it saw something which in contrast with the warship’s environment looked oddly incongruous in the Handsome Sailor? But after slyly studying him at intervals, the old Merlin’s equivocal merriment was modified; for now when the twain would meet, it would start in his face a quizzing sort of look, but it would be but momentary and sometimes replaced by an expression of speculative query as to what might eventually befall a nature like that, dropped into a world not without some mantraps and against whose subtleties simple courage lacking experience and address, and without any touch of defensive ugliness, is of little avail; and where such innocence as man is capable of does yet in a moral emergency not always sharpen the faculties or enlighten the will. However it was, the Dansker in his ascetic way rather took to Billy. Nor was this only because of a certain philosophic interest in such a character. There was another cause. While the old man’s eccentricities, sometimes bordering on the ursine, repelled the juniors, Billy, undeterred thereby, revering him as a salt hero, would make advances, never passing

52 Herman Melville the old Agamemnon man without a salutation marked by that respect which is seldom lost on the aged, however crabbed at times or whatever their station in life. There was a vein of dry humor, or what not, in the mastman; and, whether in freak of patriarchal irony touching Billy’s youth and athletic frame, or for some other and more recondite reason, from the first in addressing him he always substituted Baby for Billy, the Dansker in fact being the originator of the name by which the foretopman eventually became known aboard ship. Well then, in his mysterious little difficulty going in quest of the wrinkled one, Billy found him off duty in a dogwatch ruminating by himself, seated on a shot box of the upper gun deck, now and then surveying with a somewhat cynical regard certain of the more swaggering promenaders there. Billy recounted his trouble, again wondering how it all happened. The salt seer attentively listened, accompanying the foretopman’s recital with queer twitchings of his wrinkles and problematical little sparkles of his small ferret eyes. Making an end of his story, the foretopman asked, “And now, Dansker, do tell me what you think of it.” The old man, shoving up the front of his tarpaulin and deliberately rubbing the long slant scar at the point where it entered the thin hair, laconically said, “Baby Budd, Jemmy Legs” (meaning the master-at-arms) “is down on you.” “Jemmy Legs!” ejaculated Billy, his welkin eyes expanding. “What for? Why, he calls me ‘the sweet and pleasant young fellow,’ they tell me.” “Does he so?” grinned the grizzled one; then said, “Ay, Baby lad, a sweet voice has Jemmy Legs.” “No, not always. But to me he has. I seldom pass him but there comes a pleasant word.” “And that’s because he’s down upon you, Baby Budd.” Such reiteration, along with the manner of it, incomprehensible to a novice, disturbed Billy almost as much as the mystery for which he had sought explanation. Something less unpleasingly oracular he tried to extract; but the old sea Chiron, thinking perhaps that for the nonce he had sufficiently instructed his young Achilles, pursed his lips, gathered all his wrinkles together, and would commit himself to nothing further. Years, and those experiences which befall certain shrewder men subordinated lifelong to the will of superiors, all this had developed in the Dansker the pithy guarded cynicism that was his leading characteristic.

53B I LLY B U D D The next day an incident served to confirm Billy Budd in his incredulity as to the Dansker’s strange summing up of the case submitted. The ship at noon, going large before the wind, was rolling on her course, and he below at dinner and engaged in some sportful talk with the members of his mess chanced in a sudden lurch to spill the entire contents of his soup pan upon the new-scrubbed deck. Claggart, the master-at- arms, official rattan in hand, happened to be passing along the battery in a bay of which the mess was lodged, and the greasy liquid streamed just across his path. Stepping over it, he was proceeding on his way without comment, since the matter was nothing to take notice of under the circumstances, when he happened to observe who it was that had done the spilling. His countenance changed. Pausing, he was about to ejaculate something hasty at the sailor, but checked himself, and pointing down to the streaming soup, playfully tapped him from behind with his rattan, saying in a low musical voice peculiar to him at times, “Handsomely done, my lad! And handsome is as handsome did it, too!” And with that passed on. Not noted by Billy as not coming within his view was the involuntary smile, or rather grimace, that accompanied Claggart’s equivocal words. Aridly it drew down the thin corners of his shapely mouth. But everybody taking his remark as meant for humorous, and at which therefore as coming from a superior they were bound to laugh “with counterfeited glee,” acted accordingly; and Billy, tickled, it may be, by the allusion to his being the Handsome Sailor, merrily joined in; then addressing his messmates exelaimed, “There now, who says that Jemmy Legs is down on me!” “And who said he was, Beauty?” demanded one Donald with some surprise. Whereat the foretopman looked a little foolish, recalling that it was only one person, Board-Her-in-the-Smoke, who had suggested what to him was the smoky idea that this master-at-arms was in any peculiar way hostile to him. Meantime that functionary, resuming his path, must have momentarily worn some expression less guarded than that of the bitter smile, usurping the face from the heart—some distorting expression perhaps, for a drummer boy heedlessly frolicking along from the opposite direction and chancing to come into light collision with his person was strangely disconcerted by his aspect. Nor was the impression lessened when the official, impetuously giving him a sharp cut with the rattan, vehemently exclaimed, “Look where you go!” What was the matter with the master-at-arms? And, be the matter what it might, how could it have direct relation to Billy Budd, with

54 Herman Melville whom prior to the affair of the spilled soup he had never come into any special contact official or otherwise? What indeed could the trouble have to do with one so little inclined to give offense as the merchant- ship’s “peacemaker,” even him who in Claggart’s own phrase was “the sweet and pleasant young fellow”? Yes, why should Jemmy Legs, to borrow the Dansker’s expression, be “down” on the Handsome Sailor? But, at heart and not for nothing, as the late chance encounter may indicate to the discerning, down on him, secretly down on him, he assuredly was. Now to invent something touching the more private career of Claggart, something involving Billy Budd, of which something the latter should be wholly ignorant, some romantic incident implying that Claggart’s knowledge of the young bluejacket began at some period anterior to catching sight of him on board the seventy-four—all this, not so difficult to do, might avail in a way more or less interesting to account for whatever of enigma may appear to lurk in the case. But in fact there was nothing of the sort. And yet the cause necessarily to be assumed as the sole one assignable is in its very realism as much charged with that prime element of Radcliffian romance, the mysterious, as any that the ingenuity of the author of The Mysteries of Udolpho could devise. For what can more partake of the mysterious than an antipathy spontaneous and profound such as is evoked in certain exceptional mortals by the mere aspect of some other mortal, however harmless he may be, if not called forth by this very harmlessness itself? Now there can exist no irritating juxtaposition of dissimilar personalities comparable to that which is possible aboard a great warship fully manned and at sea. There, every day among all ranks, almost every man comes into more or less of contact with almost every other man. Wholly there to avoid even the sight of an aggravating object one must needs give it Jonah’s toss or jump overboard himself. Imagine how all this might eventually operate on some peculiar human creature the direct reverse of a saint! But for the adequate comprehending of Claggart by a normal nature these hints are insufficient. To pass from a normal nature to him one must cross “the deadly space between.” And this is best done by indirection. Long ago an honest scholar, my senior, said to me in reference to one who like himself is now no more, a man so unimpeachably respectable that against him nothing was ever openly said though among the few something was whispered, “Yes, X—— is a nut not to be cracked by

55B I LLY B U D D the tap of a lady’s fan. You are aware that I am the adherent of no organized religion, much less of any philosophy built into a system. Well, for all that, I think that to try and get into X——, enter his labyrinth and get out again, without a clue derived from some source other than what is known as ‘knowledge of the world’—that were hardly possible, at least for me.” “Why,” said I, “X——, however singular a study to some, is yet human, and knowledge of the world assuredly implies the knowledge of human nature, and in most of its varieties.” “Yes, but a superficial knowledge of it, serving ordinary purposes. But for anything deeper, I am not certain whether to know the world and to know human nature be not two distinct branches of knowledge, which while they may coexist in the same heart, yet either may exist with little or nothing of the other. Nay, in an average man of the world, his constant rubbing with it blunts that finer spiritual insight indispensable to the understanding of the essential in certain exceptional characters, whether evil ones or good. In a matter of some importance I have seen a girl wind an old lawyer about her little finger. Nor was it the dotage of senile love. Nothing of the sort. But he knew law better than he knew the girl’s heart. Coke and Blackstone hardly shed so much light into obscure spiritual places as the Hebrew prophets. And who were they? Mostly recluses.” At the time, my inexperience was such that I did not quite see the drift of all this. It may be that I see it now. And, indeed, if that lexicon which is based on Holy Writ were any longer popular, one might with less difficulty define and denominate certain phenomenal men. As it is, one must turn to some authority not liable to the charge of being tinctured with the biblical element. In a list of definitions included in the authentic translation of Plato, a list attributed to him, occurs this: “Natural Depravity: a depravity according to nature,” a definition which, though savoring of Calvinism, by no means involves Calvin’s dogma as to total mankind. Evidently its intent makes it applicable but to individuals. Not many are the examples of this depravity which the gallows and jail supply. At any rate, for notable instances, since these have no vulgar alloy of the brute in them, but invariably are dominated by intellectuality, one must go elsewhere. Civilization, especially if of the austerer sort, is auspicious to it. It folds itself in the mantle of respectability. It has its certain negative virtues serving as silent auxiliaries. It never allows wine to get within its guard. It is not going too far to say that it is without vices or small sins.

56 Herman Melville There is a phenomenal pride in it that excludes them. It is never mercenary or avaricious. In short, the depravity here meant partakes nothing of the sordid or sensual. It is serious, but free from acerbity. Though no flatterer of mankind it never speaks ill of it. But the thing which in eminent instances signalizes so exceptional a nature is this: Though the man’s even temper and discreet bearing would seem to intimate a mind peculiarly subject to the law of reason, not the less in heart he would seem to riot in complete exemption from that law, having apparently little to do with reason further than to employ it as an ambidexter implement for effecting the irrational. That is to say: Toward the accomplishment of an aim which in wantonness of atrocity would seem to partake of the insane, he will direct a cool judgment sagacious and sound. These men are madmen, and of the most dangerous sort, for their lunacy is not continuous, but occasional, evoked by some special object; it is protectively secretive, which is as much as to say it is self-contained, so that when, moreover, most active it is to the average mind not distinguishable from sanity, and for the reason above suggested: that whatever its aims may be—and the aim is never declared—the method and the outward proceeding are always perfectly rational. Now something such a one was Claggart, in whom was the mania of an evil nature, not engendered by vicious training or corrupting books or licentious living, but born with him and innate, in short “a depravity according to nature.” Dark sayings are these, some will say. But why? Is it because they somewhat savor of Holy Writ in its phrase “mystery of iniquity”? If they do, such savor was far enough from being intended, for little will it commend these pages to many a reader of today. The point of the present story turning on the hidden nature of the master-at-arms has necessitated this chapter. With an added hint or two in connection with the incident at the mess, the resumed narrative must be left to vindicate, as it may, its own credibility. That Claggart’s figure was not amiss, and his face, save the chin, well molded, has already been said. Of these favorable points he seemed not insensible, for he was not only neat but careful in his dress. But the form of Billy Budd was heroic; and if his face was without the intellectual look of the pallid Claggart’s, not the less was it lit, like his, from within, though from a different source. The bonfire in his heart made luminous the rosetan in his cheek.

57B I LLY B U D D In view of the marked contrast between the persons of the twain, it is more than probable that when the master-at-arms in the scene last given applied to the sailor the proverb “Handsome is as handsome does,” he there let escape an ironic inkling, not caught by the young sailors who heard it, as to what it was that had first moved him against Billy, namely, his significant personal beauty. Now envy and antipathy, passions irreconcilable in reason, nevertheless in fact may spring conjoined like Chang and Eng in one birth. Is Envy then such a monster? Well, though many an arraigned mortal has in hopes of mitigated penalty pleaded guilty to horrible actions, did ever anybody seriously confess to envy? Something there is in it universally felt to be more shameful than even felonious crime. And not only does everybody disown it, but the better sort are inclined to incredulity when it is in earnest imputed to an intelligent man. But since its lodgment is in the heart not the brain, no degree of intellect supplies a guarantee against it. But Claggart’s was no vulgar form of the passion. Nor, as directed toward Billy Budd, did it partake of that streak of apprehensive jealousy that marred Saul’s visage perturbedly brooding on the comely young David. Claggart’s envy struck deeper. If askance he eyed the good looks, cheery health, and frank enjoyment of young life in Billy Budd, it was because these went along with a nature that, as Claggart magnetically felt, had in its simplicity never willed malice or experienced the reactionary bite of that serpent. To him, the spirit lodged within Billy, and looking out from his welkin eyes as from windows, that ineffability it was which made the dimple in his dyed cheek, suppled his joints, and dancing in his yellow curls made him pre-eminently the Handsome Sailor. One person excepted, the master-at-arms was perhaps the only man in the ship intellectually capable of adequately appreciating the moral phenomenon presented in Billy Budd. And the insight but intensified his passion, which, assuming various secret forms within him, at times assumed that of cynic disdain, disdain of innocence—to be nothing more than innocent! Yet in an aesthetic way he saw the charm of it, the courageous free and easy temper of it, and fain would have shared it, but he despaired of it. With no power to annul the elemental evil in him, though readily enough he could hide it; apprehending the good, but powerless to be it; a nature like Claggart’s, surcharged with energy as such natures almost invariably are, what recourse is left to it but to recoil upon itself and, like the scorpion for which the Creator alone is responsible, act out to the end the part allotted it.

58 Herman Melville Passion, and passion in its profoundest, is not a thing demanding a palatial stage whereon to play its part. Down among the groundlings, among the beggars and rakers of the garbage, profound passion is enacted. And the circumstances that provoke it, however trivial or mean, are no measure of its power. In the present instance the stage is a scrubbed gun deck, and one of the external provocations a man-of-war’s man’s spilled soup. Now when the master-at-arms noticed whence came that greasy fluid streaming before his feet, he must have taken it—to some extent willfully, perhaps—not for the mere accident it assuredly was, but for the sly escape of a spontaneous feeling on Billy s part more or less answering to the antipathy on his own. In effect a foolish demonstration, he must have thought, and very harmless, like the futile kick of a heifer, which yet were the heifer a shod stallion would not be so harmless. Even so was it that into the gall of Claggart’s envy he infused the vitriol of his contempt. But the incident confirmed to him certain telltale reports purveyed to his ear by “Squeak,” one of his more cunning corporals, a grizzled little man, so nicknamed by the sailors on account of his squeaky voice and sharp visage ferreting about the dark corners of the lower decks after interlopers, satirically suggesting to them the idea of a rat in a cellar. From his chief’s employing him as an implicit tool in laying little traps for the worriment of the foretopman—for it was from the master-at- arms that the petty persecutions heretofore adverted to had proceeded— the corporal, having naturally enough concluded that his master could have no love for the sailor, made it his business, faithful understrapper that he was, to foment the ill blood by perverting to his chief certain innocent frolics of the good-natured foretopman, besides inventing for his mouth sundry contumelious epithets he claimed to have overheard him let fall. The master-at-arms never suspected the veracity of these reports, more especially as to the epithets, for he well knew how secretly unpopular may become a master-at-arms, at least a master-at-arms of those days, zealous in his function, and how the bluejackets shoot at him in private their raillery and wit; the nickname by which he goes among them (Jemmy Legs) implying under the form of merriment their cherished disrespect and dislike. But in view of the greediness of hate for pabulum it hardly needed a purveyor to feed Claggart’s passion. An uncommon prudence is habitual with the subtler depravity, for it has everything to hide. And in case of an injury but suspected, its secretiveness voluntarily cuts it off from enlightenment or disillusion; and, not unreluctantly, action is taken upon surmise as upon certainty.

59B I LLY B U D D And the retaliation is apt to be in monstrous disproportion to the supposed offense; for when in anybody was revenge in its exactions aught else but an inordinate usurer? But how with Claggart’s conscience? For though consciences are unlike as foreheads, every intelligence, not excluding the scriptural devils who “believe and tremble,” has one. But Claggart’s conscience, being but the lawyer to his will, made ogres of trifles, probably arguing that the motive imputed to Billy in spilling the soup just when he did, together with the epithets alleged, these, if nothing more, made a strong case against him; nay, justified animosity into a sort of retributive righteousness. The Pharisee is the Guy Fawkes prowling in the hid chambers underlying some natures like Claggart’s. And they can really form no conception of an unreciprocated malice. Probably the master-at-arms’ clandestine persecution of Billy was started to try the temper of the man; but it had not developed any quality in him that enmity could make official use of or even pervert into plausible self-justification; so that the occurrence at the mess, petty if it were, was a welcome one to that peculiar conscience assigned to be the private mentor of Claggart; and, for the rest, not improbably it put him upon new experiments. Not many days after the last incident narrated, something befell Billy Budd that more graveled him than aught that had previously occurred. It was a warm night for the latitude; and the foretopman, whose watch at the time was properly below, was dozing on the uppermost deck whither he had ascended from his hot hammock, one of hundreds suspended so closely wedged together over a lower gun deck that there was little or no swing to them. He lay as in the shadow of a hillside, stretched under the lee of the booms, a piled ridge of spare spars amidships between foremast and mainmast among which the ship’s largest boat, the launch, was stowed. Alongside of three other slumberers from below, he lay near that end of the booms which approaches the foremast; his station aloft on duty as a foretopman being just over the deck station of the forecastlemen, entitling him according to usage to make himself more or less at home in that neighborhood. Presently he was stirred into semiconsciousness by somebody, who must have previously sounded the sleep of the others, touching his shoulder, and then, as the foretopman raised his head, breathing into his ear in a quick whisper, “Slip into the lee fore-chains, Billy; there is something in the wind. Don’t speak. Quick, I will meet you there,” and disappearing. Now Billy, like sundry other essentially good-natured ones, had some of the weaknesses inseparable from essential good nature; and among

60 Herman Melville these was a reluctance, almost an incapacity, of plumply saying no to an abrupt proposition not obviously absurd on the face of it, nor obviously unfriendly, nor iniquitous. And being of warm blood, he had not the phlegm tacitly to negative any proposition by unresponsive inaction. Like his sense of fear, his apprehension as to aught outside of the honest and natural was seldom very quick. Besides, upon the present occasion, the drowse from his sleep still hung upon him. However it was, he mechanically rose and, sleepily wondering what could be in the wind, betook himself to the designated place, a narrow platform, one of six, outside of the high bulwarks and screened by the great deadeyes and multiple columned lanyards of the shrouds and backstays; and, in a great warship of that time, of dimensions commensurate to the hull’s magnitude; a tarry balcony in short, overhanging the sea, and so secluded that one mariner of the Bellipotent, a Nonconformist old tar of a serious turn, made it even in daytime his private oratory. In this retired nook the stranger soon joined Billy Budd. There was no moon as yet; a haze obscured the starlight. He could not distinctly see the stranger’s face. Yet from something in the outline and carriage, Billy took him, and correctly, for one of the afterguard. “Hist! Billy,” said the man, in the same quick cautionary whisper as before. “You were impressed, weren’t you? Well, so was I”; and he paused, as to mark the effect. But Billy, not knowing exactly what to make of this, said nothing. Then the other: “We are not the only impressed ones, Billy. There’s a gang of us. Couldn’t you—help—at a pinch?” “What do you mean?” demanded Billy, here thoroughly shaking off his drowse. “Hist, hist!” the hurried whisper now growing husky. “See here,” and the man held up two small objects faintly twinkling in the night light; “see, they are yours, Billy, if you’ll only——” But Billy broke in, and in his resentful eagerness to deliver himself his vocal infirmity somewhat intruded. “D—d—damme, I don’t know what you are d—d—driving at, or what you mean, but you had better g— g—go where you belong!” For the moment the fellow, as confounded, did not stir; and Billy, springing to his feet, said, “If you d—don’t start, I’ll t—t—toss you back over the r—rail!” There was no mistaking this, and the mysterious emissary decamped, disappearing in the direction of the mainmast in the shadow of the booms. “Hallo, what’s the matter?” here came growling from a forecastleman awakened from his deck doze by Billy’s raised voice. And as the foretop-

61B I LLY B U D D man reappeared and was recognized by him: “Ah, Beauty, is it you? Well, something must have been the matter, for you st—st—stuttered.” “Oh,” rejoined Billy, now mastering the impediment, “I found an afterguardsman in our part of the ship here, and I bid him be off where he belongs.” “And is that all you did about it, Foretopman?” gruffly demanded another, an irascible old fellow of brick-colored visage and hair who was known to his associate forecastlemen as “Red Pepper.” “Such sneaks I should like to marry to the gunner’s daughter!”—by that expression meaning that he would like to subject them to disciplinary castigation over a gun. However, Billy’s rendering of the matter satisfactorily accounted to these inquirers for the brief commotion, since of all the sections of a ship’s company the forecastlemen, veterans for the most part and bigoted in their sea prejudices, are the most jealous in resenting territorial encroachments, especially on the part of any of the afterguard, of whom they have but a sorry opinion—chiefly landsmen, never going aloft except to reef or furl the mainsail, and in no wise competent to handle a marlinespike or turn in a deadeye, say. This incident sorely puzzled Billy Budd. It was an entirely new experience, the first time in his life that he had ever been personally approached in underhand intriguing fashion. Prior to this encounter he had known nothing of the afterguardsman, the two men being stationed wide apart, one forward and aloft during his watch, the other on deck and aft. What could it mean? And could they really be guineas, those two glittering objects the interloper had held up to his (Billy’s) eyes? Where could the fellow get guineas? Why, even spare buttons are not so plentiful at sea. The more he turned the matter over, the more he was non-plused, and made uneasy and discomfited. In his disgustful recoil from an overture which, though he but ill comprehended, he instinctively knew must involve evil of some sort, Billy Budd was like a young horse fresh from the pasture suddenly inhaling a vile whiff from some chemical factory, and by repeated snortings trying to get it out of his nostrils and lungs. This frame of mind barred all desire of holding further parley with the fellow, even were it but for the purpose of gaining some enlightenment as to his design in approaching him. And yet he was not without natural curiosity to see how such a visitor in the dark would look in broad day. He espied him the following afternoon in his first dogwatch below, one

62 Herman Melville of the smokers on that forward part of the upper gun deck allotted to the pipe. He recognized him by his general cut and build more than by his round freckled face and glassy eyes of pale blue, veiled with lashes all but white. And yet Billy was a bit uncertain whether indeed it were he— yonder chap about his own age chatting and laughing in freehearted way, leaning against a gun; a genial young fellow enough to look at, and something of a rattlebrain, to all appearance. Rather chubby too for a sailor, even an afterguardsman. In short, the last man in the world, one would think, to be overburdened with thoughts, especially those perilous thoughts that must needs belong to a conspirator in any serious project, or even to the underling of such a conspirator. Although Billy was not aware of it, the fellow, with a sidelong watchful glance, had perceived Billy first, and then noting that Billy was looking at him, thereupon nodded a familiar sort of friendly recognition as to an old acquaintance, without interrupting the talk he was engaged in with the group of smokers. A day or two afterwards, chancing in the evening promenade on a gun deck to pass Billy, he offered a flying word of good fellowship, as it were, which by its unexpectedness, and equivocalness under the circumstances, so embarrassed Billy that he knew not how to respond to it, and let it go unnoticed. Billy was now left more at a loss than before. The ineffectual speculations into which he was led were so disturbingly alien to him that he did his best to smother them. It never entered his mind that here was a matter which, from its extreme questionableness, it was his duty as a loyal bluejacket to report in the proper quarter. And, probably, had such a step been suggested to him, he would have been deterred from taking it by the thought, one of novice magnanimity, that it would savor overmuch of the dirty work of a telltale. He kept the thing to himself. Yet upon one occasion he could not forbear a little disburdening himself to the old Dansker, tempted thereto perhaps by the influence of a balmy night when the ship lay becalmed; the twain, silent for the most part, sitting together on deck, their heads propped against the bulwarks. But it was only a partial and anonymous account that Billy gave, the unfounded scruples above referred to preventing full disclosure to anybody. Upon hearing Billy’s version, the sage Dansker seemed to divine more than he was told; and after a little meditation, during which his wrinkles were pursed as into a point, quite effacing for the time that quizzing expression his face sometimes wore: “Didn’t I say so, Baby Budd?” “Say what?” demanded Billy. “Why, Jemmy Legs is down on you.”

63B I LLY B U D D “And what,” rejoined Billy in amazement, “has Jemmy Legs to do with that cracked afterguardsman?” “Ho, it was an afterguardsman, then. A cat’s-paw, a cat’s-paw!” And with that exclamation, whether it had reference to a light puff of air just then coming over the calm sea, or a subtler relation to the afterguardsman, there is no telling, the old Merlin gave a twisting wrench with his black teeth at his plug of tobacco, vouchsafing no reply to Billy’s impetuous question, though now repeated, for it was his wont to relapse into grim silence when interrogated in skeptical sort as to any of his sententious oracles, not always very clear ones, rather partaking of that obscurity which invests most Delphic deliverances from any quarter. Long experience had very likely brought this old man to that bitter prudence which never interferes in aught and never gives advice. Yes, despite the Dansker’s pithy insistence as to the master-at-arms being at the bottom of these strange experiences of Billy on board the Bellipotent, the young sailor was ready to ascribe them to almost anybody but the man who, to use Billy’s own expression, “always had a pleasant word for him.” This is to be wondered at. Yet not so much to be wondered at. In certain matters, some sailors even in mature life remain unsophisticated enough. But a young seafarer of the disposition of our athletic foretopman is much of a child-man. And yet a child’s utter innocence is but its blank ignorance, and the innocence more or less wanes as intelligence waxes. But in Billy Budd intelligence, such as it was, had advanced while yet his simple-mindedness remained for the most part unaffected. Experience is a teacher indeed; yet did Billy’s years make his experience small. Besides, he had none of that intuitive knowledge of the bad which in natures not good or incompletely so foreruns experience, and therefore may pertain, as in some instances it too clearly does pertain, even to youth. And what could Billy know of man except of man as a mere sailor? And the old-fashioned sailor, the veritable man before the mast, the sailor from boyhood up, he, though indeed of the same species as a landsman, is in some respects singularly distinct from him. The sailor is frankness, the landsman is finesse. Life is not a game with the sailor, demanding the long head—no intricate game of chess where few moves are made in straightforwardness and ends are attained by indirection, an oblique, tedious, barren game hardly worth that poor candle burned out in playing it. Yes, as a class, sailors are in character a juvenile race. Even their devia-

64 Herman Melville tions are marked by juvenility, this more especially holding true with the sailors of Billy’s time. Then, too, certain things which apply to all sailors do more pointedly operate here and there upon the junior one. Every sailor, too, is accustomed to obey orders without debating them; his life afloat is externally ruled for him; he is not brought into that promiscuous commerce with mankind where unobstructed free agency on equal terms—equal superficially, at least—soon teaches one that unless upon occasion he exercise a distrust keen in proportion to the fairness of the appearance, some foul turn may b e served him. A ruled undemonstrative distrustfulness is so habitual, not with businessmen so much as with men who know their kind in less shallow relations than business, namely, certain men of the world, that they come at last to employ it all but unconsciously; and some of them would very likely feel real surprise at being charged with it as one of their general characteristics. But after the little matter at the mess Billy Budd no more found himself in strange trouble at times about his hammock or his clothes bag or what not. As to that smile that occasionally sunned him, and the pleasant passing word, these were, if not more frequent, yet if anything more pronounced than before. But for all that, there were certain other demonstrations now. When Claggart’s unobserved glance happened to light on belted Billy rolling along the upper gun deck in the leisure of the second dogwatch, exchanging passing broadsides of fun with other young promenaders in the crowd, that glance would follow the cheerful sea Hyperion with a settled meditative and melancholy expression, his eyes strangely suffused with incipient feverish tears. Then would Claggart look like the man of sorrows. Yes, and sometimes the melancholy expression would have in it a touch of soft yearning, as if Claggart could even have loved Billy but for fate and ban. But this was an evanescence, and quickly repented of, as it were, by an immitigable look, pinching and shriveling the visage into the momentary semblance of a wrinkled walnut. But sometimes catching sight in advance of the foretopman coming in his direction, he would, upon their nearing, step aside a little to let him pass, dwelling upon Billy for the moment with the glittering dental satire of a Guise. But upon any abrupt unforeseen encounter a red light would flash forth from his eye like a spark from an anvil in a dusk smithy. That quick, fierce light was a strange one, darted from orbs which in repose were of a color nearest approaching a deeper violet, the softest of shades.

65B I LLY B U D D Though some of these caprices of the pit could not but be observed by their object, yet were they beyond the construing of such a nature. And the thews of Billy were hardly compatible with that sort of sensitive spiritual organization which in some cases instinctively conveys to ignorant innocence an admonition of the proximity of the malign. He thought the master-at-arms acted in a manner rather queer at times. That was all. But the occasional frank air and pleasant word went for what they purported to be, the young sailor never having heard as yet of the “too fair-spoken man.” Had the foretopman been conscious of having done or said anything to provoke the ill will of the official, it would have been different with him, and his sight might have been purged if not sharpened. As it was, innocence was his blinder. So was it with him in yet another matter. Two minor officers, the armorer and captain of the hold, with whom he had never exchanged a word, his position in the ship not bringing him into contact with them, these men now for the first began to cast upon Billy, when they chanced to encounter him, that peculiar glance which evidences that the man from whom it comes has been some way tampered with, and to the prejudice of him upon whom the glance lights. Never did it occur to Billy as a thing to be noted or a thing suspicious, though he well knew the fact that the armorer and captain of the hold, with the ship’s yeoman, apothecary, and others of that grade, were by naval usage messmates of the master-at-arms, men with ears convenient to his confidential tongue. But the general popularity that came from our Handsome Sailor’s manly forwardness upon occasion and irresistible good nature, indicating no mental superiority tending to excite an invidious feeling, this good will on the part of most of his shipmates made him the less to concern himself about such mute aspects toward him as those whereto allusion has just been made, aspects he could not so fathom as to infer their whole import. As to the afterguardsman, though Billy for reasons already given necessarily saw little of him, yet when the two did happen to meet, invariably came the fellow’s offhand cheerful recognition, sometimes accompanied by a passing pleasant word or two. Whatever that equivocal young person’s original design may really have been, or the design of which he might have been the deputy, certain it was from his manner upon these occasions that he had wholly dropped it. It was as if his precocity of crookedness (and every vulgar villain is

66 Herman Melville precocious) had for once deceived him, and the man he had sought to entrap as a simpleton had through his very simplicity ignominiously baffled him. But shrewd ones may opine that it was hardly possible for Billy to refrain from going up to the afterguardsman and bluntly demanding to know his purpose in the initial interview so abruptly closed in the fore- chains. Shrewd ones may also think it but natural in Billy to set about sounding some of the other impressed men of the ship in order to discover what basis, if any, there was for the emissary’s obscure suggestions as to plotting disaffection aboard. Yes, shrewd ones may so think. But something more, or rather something else, than mere shrewdness is perhaps needful for the due understanding of such a character as Billy Budd’s. As to Claggart, the monomania in the man—if that indeed it were—as involuntarily disclosed by starts in the manifestations detailed, yet in general covered over by his self-contained and rational demeanor; this, like a subterranean fire, was eating its way deeper and deeper in him. Something decisive must come of it. After the mysterious interview in the fore-chains, the one so abruptly ended there by Billy, nothing especially germane to the story occurred until the events now about to be narrated. Elsewhere it has been said that in the lack of frigates (of course better sailers than line-of-battle ships) in the English squadron up the Straits at that period, the Bellipotent 74 was occasionally employed not only as an available substitute for a scout but at times on detached service of more important kind. This was not alone because of her sailing qualities, not common in a ship of her rate, but quite as much, probably, that the character of her commander, it was thought, specially adapted him for any duty where under unforeseen difficulties a prompt initiative might have to be taken in some matter demanding knowledge and ability in addition to those qualities implied in good seamanship. It was on an expedition of the latter sort, a somewhat distant one, and when the Bellipotent was almost at her furthest remove from the fleet, that in the latter part of an afternoon watch she unexpectedly came in sight of a ship of the enemy. It proved to be a frigate. The latter, perceiving through the glass that the weight of men and metal would be heavily against her, invoking her light heels crowded sail to get away. After a chase urged almost against hope and lasting until about the middle of the first dogwatch, she signally succeeded in effecting her escape.

67B I LLY B U D D Not long after the pursuit had been given up, and ere the excitement incident thereto had altogether waned away, the master-at-arms, ascending from his cavernous sphere, made his appearance cap in hand by the mainmast respectfully waiting the notice of Captain Vere, then solitary walking the weather side of the quarter-deck, doubtless somewhat chafed at the failure of the pursuit. The spot where Claggart stood was the place allotted to men of lesser grades seeking some more particular interview either with the officer of the deck or the captain himself. But from the latter it was not often that a sailor or petty officer of those days would seek a hearing; only some exceptional cause would, according to established custom, have warranted that. Presently, just as the commander, absorbed in his reflections, was on the point of turning aft in his promenade, he became sensible of Claggart’s presence, and saw the doffed cap held in deferential expectancy. Here be it said that Captain Vere’s personal knowledge of this petty officer had only begun at the time of the ship’s last sailing from home, Claggart then for the first, in transfer from a ship detained for repairs, supplying on board the Bellipotent the place of a previous master-at-arms disabled and ashore. No sooner did the commander observe who it was that now deferentially stood awaiting his notice than a peculiar expression came over him. It was not unlike that which uncontrollably will flit across the countenance of one at unawares encountering a person who, though known to him indeed, has hardly been long enough known for thorough knowledge, but something in whose aspect nevertheless now for the first provokes a vaguely repellent distaste. But coming to a stand and resuming much of his wonted official manner, save that a sort of impatience lurked in the intonation of the opening word, he said “Well? What is it, Master-at-arms?” With the air of a subordinate grieved at the necessity of being a messenger of ill tidings, and while conscientiously determined to be frank yet equally resolved upon shunning overstatement, Claggart at this invitation, or rather summons, to disburden, spoke up. What he said, conveyed in the language of no uneducated man, was to the effect following, if not altogether in these words, namely, that during the chase and preparations for the possible encounter he had seen enough to convince him that at least one sailor aboard was a dangerous character in a ship mustering some who not only had taken a guilty part in the late serious troubles, but others also who, like the man in question, had entered His Majesty’s service under another form than enlistment.

68 Herman Melville At this point Captain Vere with some impatience interrupted him: “Be direct, man; say impressed men.” Claggart made a gesture of subservience, and proceeded. Quite lately he (Claggart) had begun to suspect that on the gun decks some sort of movement prompted by the sailor in question was covertly going on, but he had not thought himself warranted in reporting the suspicion so long as it remained indistinct. But from what he had that afternoon observed in the man referred to, the suspicion of something clandestine going on had advanced to a point less removed from certainty. He deeply felt, he added, the serious responsibility assumed in making a report involving such possible consequences to the individual mainly concerned, besides tending to augment those natural anxieties which every naval commander must feel in view of extraordinary outbreaks so recent as those which, he sorrowfully said it, it needed not to name. Now at the first broaching of the matter Captain Vere, taken by surprise, could not wholly dissemble his disquietude. But as Claggart went on, the former’s aspect changed into restiveness under something in the testifier’s manner in giving his testimony. However, he refrained from interrupting him. And Claggart, continuing, concluded with this: “God forbid, your honor, that the Bellipotent’s should be the experience of the——” “Never mind that!” here peremptorily broke in the superior, his face altering with anger, instinctively divining the ship that the other was about to name, one in which the Nore Mutiny had assumed a singularly tragical character that for a time jeopardized the life of its commander. Under the circumstances he was indignant at the purposed allusion. When the commissioned officers themselves were on all occasions very heedful how they referred to the recent events in the fleet, for a petty officer unnecessarily to allude to them in the presence of his captain, this struck him as a most immodest presumption. Besides, to his quick sense of self-respect it even looked under the circumstances something like an attempt to alarm him. Nor at first was he without some surprise that one who so far as he had hitherto come under his notice had shown considerable tact in his function should in this particular evince such lack of it. But these thoughts and kindred dubious ones flitting across his mind were suddenly replaced by an intuitional surmise which, though as yet obscure in form, served practically to affect his reception of the ill tidings. Certain it is that, long versed in everything pertaining to the com-

69B I LLY B U D D plicated gun-deck life, which like every other form of life has its secret mines and dubious side, the side popularly disclaimed, Captain Vere did not permit himself to be unduly disturbed by the general tenor of his subordinate’s report. Furthermore, if in view of recent events prompt action should be taken at the first palpable sign of recurring insubordination, for all that, not judicious would it be, he thought, to keep the idea of lingering disaffection alive by undue forwardness in crediting an informer, even if his own subordinate and charged among other things with police surveillance of the crew. This feeling would not perhaps have so prevailed with him were it not that upon a prior occasion the patriotic zeal officially evinced by Claggart had somewhat irritated him as appearing rather supersensible and strained. Furthermore, something even in the official’s self-possessed and somewhat ostentatious manner in making his specifications strangely reminded him of a bandsman, a perjurous witness in a capital case before a court-martial ashore of which when a lieutenant he (Captain Vere) had been a member. Now the peremptory check given to Claggart in the matter of the arrested allusion was quickly followed up by this: “You say that there is at least one dangerous man aboard. Name him.” “William Budd, a foretopman, your honor.” “William Budd!” repeated Captain Vere with unfeigned astonishment. “And mean you the man that Lieutenant Ratcliffe took from the merchantman not very long ago, the young fellow who seems to be so popular with the men—Billy, the Handsome Sailor, as they call him?” “The same, your honor; but for all his youth and good looks, a deep one. Not for nothing does he insinuate himself into the good will of his shipmates, since at the least they will at a pinch say—all hands will—a good word for him, and at all hazards. Did Lieutenant Ratcliffe happen to tell your honor of that adroit fling of Budd’s, jumping up in the cutter’s bow under the merchantman’s stern when he was being taken off? It is even masked by that sort of good-humored air that at heart he resents his impressment. You have but noted his fair cheek. A mantrap may be under the ruddy-tipped daisies.” Now the Handsome Sailor as a signal figure among the crew had naturally enough attracted the captain’s attention from the first. Though in general not very demonstrative to his officers, he had congratulated Lieutenant Ratcliffe upon his good fortune in lighting on such a fine specimen of the genus homo, who in the nude might have posed for a statue of young Adam before the Fall. As to Billy’s adieu to the ship

70 Herman Melville Rights-of-Man, which the boarding lieutenant had indeed reported to him, but, in a deferential way, more as a good story than aught else, Captain Vere, though mistakenly understanding it as a satiric sally, had but thought so much the better of the impressed man for it; as a military sailor, admiring the spirit that could take an arbitrary enlistment so merrily and sensibly. The foretopman’s conduct, too, so far as it had fallen under the captain’s notice, had confirmed the first happy augury, while the new recruit’s qualities as a “sailorman” seemed to be such that he had thought of recommending him to the executive officer for promotion to a place that would more frequently bring him under his own observation, namely, the captaincy of the mizzentop, replacing there in the starboard watch a man not so young whom partly for that reason he deemed less fitted for the post. Be it parenthesized here that since the mizzentopmen have not to handle such breadths of heavy canvas as the lower sails on the mainmast and foremast, a young man if of the right stuff not only seems best adapted to duty there, but in fact is generally selected for the captaincy of that top, and the company under him are light hands and often but striplings. In sum, Captain Vere had from the beginning deemed Billy Budd to be what in the naval parlance of the time was called a “King’s bargain”: that is to say, for His Britannic Majesty’s navy a capital investment at small outlay or none at all. After a brief pause, during which the reminiscences above mentioned passed vividly through his mind and he weighed the import of Claggart’s last suggestion conveyed in the phrase “mantrap under the daisies,” and the more he weighed it the less reliance he felt in the informer’s good faith, suddenly he turned upon him and in a low voice demanded: “Do you come to me, Master-at-arms, with so foggy a tale? As to Budd, cite me an act or spoken word of his confirmatory of what you in general charge against him. Stay,” drawing nearer to him; “heed what you speak. Just now, and in a case like this, there is a yardarm-end for the false witness.” “Ah, your honor!” sighed Claggart, mildly shaking his shapely head as in sad deprecation of such unmerited severity of tone. Then, bridling— erecting himself as in virtuous self-assertion—he circumstantially alleged certain words and acts which collectively, if credited, led to presumptions mortally inculpating Budd. And for some of these averments, he added, substantiating proof was not far. With gray eyes impatient and distrustful essaying to fathom to the bottom Claggart’s calm violet ones, Captain Vere again heard him out; then for the moment stood ruminating. The mood he evinced, Claggart—

71B I LLY B U D D himself for the time liberated from the other’s scrutiny—steadily regarded with a look difficult to render: a look curious of the operation of his tactics, a look such as might have been that of the spokesman of the envious children of Jacob deceptively imposing upon the troubled patriarch the blood-dyed coat of young Joseph. Though something exceptional in the moral quality of Captain Vere made him, in earnest encounter with a fellow man, a veritable touchstone of that man’s essential nature, yet now as to Claggart and what was really going on in him his feeling partook less of intuitional conviction than of strong suspicion clogged by strange dubieties. The perplexity he evinced proceeded less from aught touching the man informed against— as Claggart doubtless opined—than from considerations how best to act in regard to the informer. At first, indeed, he was naturally for summoning that substantiation of his allegations which Claggart said was at hand. But such a proceeding would result in the matter at once getting abroad, which in the present stage of it, he thought, might undesirably affect the ship’s company. If Claggart was a false witness— that closed the affair. And therefore, before trying the accusation, he would first practically test the accuser; and he thought this could be done in a quiet, undemonstrative way. The measure he determined upon involved a shifting of the scene, a transfer to a place less exposed to observation than the broad quarter- deck. For although the few gun-room officers there at the time had, in due observance of naval etiquette, withdrawn to leeward the moment Captain Vere had begun his promenade on the deck’s weather side; and though during the colloquy with Claggart they of course ventured not to diminish the distance; and though throughout the interview Captain Vere’s voice was far from high, and Claggart’s silvery and low; and the wind in the cordage and the wash of the sea helped the more to put them beyond earshot; nevertheless, the interview’s continuance already had attracted observation from some topmen aloft and other sailors in the waist or further forward. Having determined upon his measures, Captain Vere forthwith took action. Abruptly turning to Claggart, he asked, “Master-at-arms, is it now Budd’s watch aloft?” “No, your honor.” Whereupon, “Mr. Wilkes!” summoning the nearest midshipman. “Tell Albert to come to me.” Albert was the captain’s hammock boy, a sort of sea valet in whose discretion and fidelity his master had much confidence. The lad appeared.

72 Herman Melville “You know Budd, the foretopman?” “I do, Sir.” “Go find him. It is his watch off. Manage to tell him out of earshot that he is wanted aft. Contrive it that he speaks to nobody. Keep him in talk yourself. And not till you get well aft here, not till then let him know that the place where he is wanted is my cabin. You understand. Go.—Master-at-arms, show yourself on the decks below, and when you think it time for Albert to be coming with his man, stand by quietly to follow the sailor in.” Now when the foretopman found himself in the cabin, closeted there, as it were, with the captain and Claggart, he was surprised enough. But it was a surprise unaccompanied by apprehension or distrust. To an immature nature essentially honest and humane, forewarning intimations of subtler danger from one’s kind come tardily if at all. The only thing that took shape in the young sailor’s mind was this: Yes, the captain, I have always thought, looks kindly upon me. Wonder if he’s going to make me his coxswain. I should like that. And maybe now he is going to ask the master-at-arms about me. “Shut the door there, sentry,” said the commander; “stand without, and let nobody come in.—Now, Master-at-arms, tell this man to his face what you told of him to me,” and stood prepared to scrutinize the mutually confronting visages. With the measured step and calm collected air of an asylum physician approaching in the public hall some patient beginning to show indications of a coming paroxysm, Claggart deliberately advanced within short range of Billy and, mesmerically looking him in the eye, briefly recapitulated the accusation. Not at first did Billy take it in. When he did, the rosetan of his cheek looked struck as by white leprosy. He stood like one impaled and gagged. Meanwhile the accuser’s eyes, removing not as yet from the blue dilated ones, underwent a phenomenal change, their wonted rich violet color blurring into a muddy purple. Those lights of human intelligence, losing human expression, were gelidly protruding like the alien eyes of certain uncatalogued creatures of the deep. The first mesmeristic glance was one of serpent fascination; the last was as the paralyzing lurch of the torpedo fish. “Speak, man!” said Captain Vere to the transfixed one, struck by his aspect even more than by Claggart’s. “Speak! Defend yourself!” Which appeal caused but a strange dumb gesturing and gurgling in Billy;

73B I LLY B U D D amazement at such an accusation so suddenly sprung on inexperienced nonage; this, and, it may be, horror of the accuser’s eyes, serving to bring out his lurking defect and in this instance for the time intensifying it into a convulsed tongue-tie; while the intent head and entire form straining forward in an agony of ineffectual eagerness to obey the injunction to speak and defend himself gave an expression to the face like that of a condemned vestal priestess in the moment of being buried alive, and in the first struggle against suffocation. Though at the time Captain Vere was quite ignorant of Billy’s liability to vocal impediment, he now immediately divined it, since vividly Billy’s aspect recalled to him that of a bright young schoolmate of his whom he had once seen struck by much the same startling impotence in the act of eagerly rising in the class to be foremost in response to a testing question put to it by the master. Going close up to the young sailor, and laying a soothing hand on his shoulder, he said, “There is no hurry, my boy. Take your time, take your time.” Contrary to the effect intended, these words so fatherly in tone, doubtless touching Billy’s heart to the quick, prompted yet more violent efforts at utterance—efforts soon ending for the time in confirming the paralysis, and bringing to his face an expression which was as a crucifixion to behold. The next instant, quick as the flame from a discharged cannon at night, his right arm shot out, and Claggart dropped to the deck. Whether intentionally or but owing to the young athlete’s superior height, the blow had taken effect full upon the forehead, so shapely and intellectual-looking a feature in the master-at-arms, so that the body fell over lengthwise, like a heavy plank tilted from erectness. A gasp or two, and he lay motionless. “Fated boy,” breathed Captain Vere in tone so low as to be almost a whisper, “what have you done! But here, help me.” The twain raised the felled one from the loins up into a sitting position. The spare form flexibly acquiesced, but inertly. It was like handling a dead snake. They lowered it back. Regaining erectness, Captain Vere with one hand covering his face stood to all appearance as impassive as the object at his feet. Was he absorbed in taking in all the bearings of the event and what was best not only now at once to be done, but also in the sequel? Slowly he uncovered his face; and the effect was as if the moon emerging from eclipse should reappear with quite another aspect than that which had gone into hiding. The father in him, manifested towards Billy thus far in the scene, was replaced by the military disciplinarian. In his official tone he bade the foretopman retire to a stateroom

74 Herman Melville aft (pointing it out), and there remain till thence summoned. This order Billy in silence mechanically obeyed. Then going to the cabin door where it opened on the quarter-deck, Captain Vere said to the sentry without, “Tell somebody to send Albert here.” When the lad appeared, his master so contrived it that he should not catch sight of the prone one. “Albert,” he said to him, “tell the surgeon I wish to see him. You need not come back till called.” When the surgeon entered—a self-poised character of that grave sense and experience that hardly anything could take him aback—Captain Vere advanced to meet him, thus unconsciously intercepting his view of Claggart, and, interrupting the other’s wonted ceremonious salutation, said, “Nay. Tell me how it is with yonder man,” directing his attention to the prostrate one. The surgeon looked, and for all his self-command somewhat started at the abrupt revelation. On Claggart’s always pallid complexion, thick black blood was now oozing from nostril and ear. To the gazer’s professional eye it was unmistakably no living man that he saw. “Is it so, then?” said Captain Vere, intently watching him. “I thought it. But verify it.” Whereupon the customary tests confirmed the surgeon’s first glance, who now, looking up in unfeigned concern, cast a look of intense inquisitiveness upon his superior. But Captain Vere, with one hand to his brow, was standing motionless. Suddenly, catching the surgeon’s arm convulsively, he exclaimed, pointing down to the body, “It is the divine judgment on Ananias! Look!” Disturbed by the excited manner he had never before observed in the Bellipotent’s captain, and as yet wholly ignorant of the affair, the prudent surgeon nevertheless held his peace, only again looking an earnest interrogatory as to what it was that had resulted in such a tragedy. But Captain Vere was now again motionless, standing absorbed in thought. Again starting, he vehemently exclaimed, “Struck dead by an angel of God! Yet the angel must hang!” At these passionate interjections, mere incoherences to the listener as yet unapprised of the antecedents, the surgeon was profoundly discom- posed. But now, as recollecting himself, Captain Vere in less passionate tone briefly related the circumstances leading up to the event. “But come; we must dispatch,” he added. “Help me to remove him” (meaning the body) “to yonder compartment,” designating one opposite that where the foretopman remained immured. Anew disturbed by a request that, as

75B I LLY B U D D implying a desire for secrecy, seemed unaccountably strange to him, there was nothing for the subordinate to do but comply. “Go now,” said Captain Vere with something of his wonted manner. “Go now. I presently shall call a drumhead court. Tell the lieutenants what has happened, and tell Mr. Mordant” (meaning the captain of marines), “and charge them to keep the matter to themselves.” Full of disquietude and misgiving, the surgeon left the cabin. Was Captain Vere suddenly affected in his mind, or was it but a transient excitement, brought about by so strange and extraordinary a tragedy? As to the drumhead court, it struck the surgeon as impolitic, if nothing more. The thing to do, he thought, was to place Billy Budd in confinement, and in a way dictated by usage, and postpone further action in so extraordinary a case to such time as they should rejoin the squadron, and then refer it to the admiral. He recalled the unwonted agitation of Captain Vere and his excited exclamations, so at variance with his normal manner. Was he unhinged? But assuming that he is, it is not so susceptible of proof. What then can the surgeon do? No more trying situation is conceivable than that of an officer subordinate under a captain whom he suspects to be not mad, indeed, but yet not quite unaffected in his intellects. To argue his order to him would be insolence. To resist him would be mutiny. In obedience to Captain Vere, he communicated what had happened to the lieutenants and captain of marines, saying nothing as to the captain’s state. They fully shared his own surprise and concern. Like him too, they seemed to think that such a matter should be referred to the admiral. Who in the rainbow can draw the line where the violet tint ends and the orange tint begins? Distinctly we see the difference of the colors, but where exactly does the one first blendingly enter into the other? So with sanity and insanity. In pronounced cases there is no question about them. But in some supposed cases, in various degrees supposedly less pronounced, to draw the exact line of demarcation few will undertake, though for a fee becoming considerate some professional experts will. There is nothing namable but that some men will, or undertake to, do it for pay. Whether Captain Vere, as the surgeon professionally and privately surmised, was really the sudden victim of any degree of aberration,

76 Herman Melville everyone must determine for himself by such light as this narrative may afford. That the unhappy event which has been narrated could not have happened at a worse juncture was but too true. For it was close on the heel of the suppressed insurrections, an aftertime very critical to naval authority, demanding from every English sea commander two qualities not readily interfusable—prudence and rigor. Moreover, there was something crucial in the case. In the jugglery of circumstances preceding and attending the event on board the Bellipotent, and in the light of that martial code whereby it was formally to be judged, innocence and guilt personified in Claggart and Budd in effect changed places. In a legal view the apparent victim of the tragedy was he who had sought to victimize a man blameless; and the indisputable deed of the latter, navally regarded, constituted the most heinous of military crimes. Yet more. The essential right and wrong involved in the matter, the clearer that might be, so much the worse for the responsibility of a loyal sea commander, inasmuch as he was not authorized to determine the matter on that primitive basis. Small wonder then that the Bellipotent’s captain, though in general a man of rapid decision, felt that circumspectness not less than promptitude was necessary. Until he could decide upon his course, and in each detail; and not only so, but until the concluding measure was upon the point of being enacted, he deemed it advisable, in view of all the circumstances, to guard as much as possible against publicity. Here he may or may not have erred. Certain it is, however, that subsequently in the confidential talk of more than one or two gun rooms and cabins he was not a little criticized by some officers, a fact imputed by his friends and vehemently by his cousin Jack Denton to professional jealousy of Starry Vere. Some imaginative ground for invidious comment there was. The maintenance of secrecy in the matter, the confining all knowledge of it for a time to the place where the homicide occurred, the quarter-deck cabin—in these particulars lurked some resemblance to the policy adopted in those tragedies of the palace which have occurred more than once in the capital founded by Peter the Barbarian. The case indeed was such that fain would the Bellipotent’s captain have deferred taking any action whatever respecting it further than to keep the foretopman a close prisoner till the ship rejoined the squadron and then submitting the matter to the judgment of his admiral. But a true military officer is in one particular like a true monk. Not with more of self-abnegation will the latter keep his vows of mo-

77B I LLY B U D D nastic obedience than the former his vows of allegiance to martial duty. Feeling that unless quick action was taken on it, the deed of the foretopman, so soon as it should be known on the gun decks, would tend to awaken any slumbering embers of the Nore among the crew, a sense of the urgency of the case overruled in Captain Vere every other consideration. But though a conscientious disciplinarian, he was no lover of authority for mere authority’s sake. Very far was he from embracing opportunities for monopolizing to himself the perils of moral responsibility, none at least that could properly be referred to an official superior or shared with him by his official equals or even subordinates. So thinking, he was glad it would not be at variance with usage to turn the matter over to a summary court of his own officers, reserving to himself, as the one on whom the ultimate accountability would rest, the right of maintaining a supervision of it, or formally or informally interposing at need. Accordingly a drumhead court was summarily convened, he electing the individuals composing it: the first lieutenant, the captain of marines, and the sailing master. In associating an officer of marines with the sea lieutenant and the sailing master in a case having to do with a sailor, the commander perhaps deviated from general custom. He was prompted thereto by the circumstance that he took that soldier to be a judicious person, thoughtful, and not altogether incapable of grappling with a difficult case unprecedented in his prior experience. Yet even as to him he was not without some latent misgiving, for withal he was an extremely good- natured man, an enjoyer of his dinner, a sound sleeper, and inclined to obesity—a man who though he would always maintain his manhood in battle might not prove altogether reliable in a moral dilemma involving aught of the tragic. As to the first lieutenant and the sailing master, Captain Vere could not but be aware that though honest natures, of approved gallantry upon occasion, their intelligence was mostly confined to the matter of active seamanship and the fighting demands of their profession. The court was held in the same cabin where the unfortunate affair had taken place. This cabin, the commander’s, embraced the entire area under the poop deck. Aft, and on either side, was a small stateroom, the one now temporarily a jail and the other a deadhouse, and a yet smaller compartment, leaving a space between expanding forward into a goodly oblong of length coinciding with the ship’s beam. A skylight of moderate dimension was overhead, and at each end of the oblong space were two

78 Herman Melville sashed porthole windows easily convertible back into embrasures for short carronades. All being quickly in readiness, Billy Budd was arraigned, Captain Vere necessarily appearing as the sole witness in the case, and as such temporarily sinking his rank, though singularly maintaining it in a matter apparently trivial, namely, that he testified from the ship’s weather side, with that object having caused the court to sit on the lee side. Concisely he narrated all that had led up to the catastrophe, omitting nothing in Claggart’s accusation and deposing as to the manner in which the prisoner had received it. At this testimony the three officers glanced with no little surprise at Billy Budd, the last man they would have suspected either of the mutinous design alleged by Claggart or the undeniable deed he himself had done. The first lieutenant, taking judicial primacy and turning toward the prisoner, said, “Captain Vere has spoken. Is it or is it not as Captain Vere says?” In response came syllables not so much impeded in the utterance as might have been anticipated. They were these: “Captain Vere tells the truth. It is just as Captain Vere says, but it is not as the master-at-arms said. I have eaten the King’s bread and I am true to the King.” “I believe you, my man,” said the witness, his voice indicating a suppressed emotion not otherwise betrayed. “God will bless you for that, your honor!” not without stammering said Billy, and all but broke down. But immediately he was recalled to self- control by another question, to which with the same emotional difficulty of utterance he said, “No, there was no malice between us. I never bore malice against the master-at-arms. I am sorry that he is dead. I did not mean to kill him. Could I have used my tongue I would not have struck him. But he foully lied to my face and in presence of my captain, and I had to say something, and I could only say it with a blow, God help me!” In the impulsive aboveboard manner of the frank one the court saw confirmed all that was implied in words that just previously had perplexed them, coming as they did from the testifier to the tragedy and promptly following Billy’s impassioned disclaimer of mutinous intent—Captain Vere’s words, “I believe you, my man.” Next it was asked of him whether he knew of or suspected aught savoring of incipient trouble (meaning mutiny, though the explicit term was avoided) going on in any section of the ship’s company. The reply lingered. This was naturally imputed by the court to the same vocal embarrassment which had retarded or obstructed previous answers. But in main it was otherwise here, the question immediately

79B I LLY B U D D recalling to Billy’s mind the interview with the afterguardsman in the fore-chains. But an innate repugnance to playing a part at all approaching that of an informer against one’s own shipmates—the same erring sense of uninstructed honor which had stood in the way of his reporting the matter at the time, though as a loyal man-of-war’s man it was incumbent on him, and failure so to do, if charged against him and proven, would have subjected him to the heaviest of penalties; this, with the blind feeling now his that nothing really was being hatched, prevailed with him. When the answer came it was a negative. “One question more,” said the officer of marines, now first speaking and with a troubled earnestness. “You tell us that what the master-at- arms said against you was a lie. Now why should he have so lied, so maliciously lied, since you declare there was no malice between you?” At that question, unintentionally touching on a spiritual sphere wholly obscure to Billy’s thoughts, he was nonplussed, evincing a confusion indeed that some observers, such as can readily be imagined, would have construed into involuntary evidence of hidden guilt. Nevertheless, he strove some way to answer, but all at once relinquished the vain endeavor, at the same time turning an appealing glance towards Captain Vere as deeming him his best helper and friend. Captain Vere, who had been seated for a time, rose to his feet, addressing the interrogator. “The question you put to him comes naturally enough. But how can he rightly answer it?—or anybody else, unless indeed it be he who lies within there,” designating the compartment where lay the corpse. “But the prone one there will not rise to our summons. In effect, though, as it seems to me, the point you make is hardly material. Quite aside from any conceivable motive actuating the master-at-arms, and irrespective of the provocation to the blow, a martial court must needs in the present case confine its attention to the blow’s consequence, which consequence justly is to be deemed not otherwise than as the striker’s deed.” This utterance, the full significance of which it was not at all likely that Billy took in, nevertheless caused him to turn a wistful interrogative look toward the speaker, a look in its dumb expressiveness not unlike that which a dog of generous breed might turn upon his master, seeking in his face some elucidation of a previous gesture ambiguous to the canine intelligence. Nor was the same utterance without marked effect upon the three officers, more especially the soldier. Couched in it seemed to them a meaning unanticipated, involving a prejudgment on the speaker’s part. It served to augment a mental disturbance previously evident enough.

80 Herman Melville The soldier once more spoke, in a tone of suggestive dubiety addressing at once his associates and Captain Vere: “Nobody is present—none of the ship’s company, I mean—who might shed lateral light, if any is to be had, upon what remains mysterious in this matter.” “That is thoughtfully put,” said Captain Vere; “I see your drift. Ay, there is a mystery; but, to use a scriptural phrase, it is a ‘mystery of iniquity,’ a matter for psychologic theologians to discuss. But what has a military court to do with it? Not to add that for us any possible investigation of it is cut off by the lasting tongue-tie of—him—in yonder,” again designating the mortuary stateroom. “The prisoner’s deed—with that alone we have to do.” To this, and particularly the closing reiteration, the marine soldier, knowing not how aptly to reply, sadly abstained from saying aught. The first lieutenant, who at the outset had not unnaturally assumed primacy in the court, now overrulingly instructed by a glance from Captain Vere, a glance more effective than words, resumed that primacy. Turning to the prisoner, “Budd,” he said, and scarce in equable tones, “Budd, if you have aught further to say for yourself, say it now.” Upon this the young sailor turned another quick glance toward Captain Vere; then, as taking a hint from that aspect, a hint confirming his own instinct that silence was now best, replied to the lieutenant, “I have said all, Sir.” The marine—the same who had been the sentinel without the cabin door at the time that the foretopman, followed by the master-at-arms, entered it—he, standing by the sailor throughout these judicial proceedings, was now directed to take him back to the after compartment originally assigned to the prisoner and his custodian. As the twain disappeared from view, the three officers, as partially liberated from some inward constraint associated with Billy’s mere presence, simultaneously stirred in their seats. They exchanged looks of troubled indecision, yet feeling that decide they must and without long delay. For Captain Vere, he for the time stood—unconsciously with his back toward them, apparently in one of his absent fits—gazing out from a sashed porthole to windward upon the monotonous blank of the twilight sea. But the court’s silence continuing, broken only at moments by brief consultations, in low earnest tones, this served to arouse him and energize him. Turning, he to and fro paced the cabin athwart; in the returning ascent to windward climbing the slant deck in the ship’s lee roll, without knowing it sym- bolizing thus in his action a mind resolute to surmount difficulties even if against primitive instincts strong as the wind and the sea. Presently he

81B I LLY B U D D came to a stand before the three. After scanning their faces he stood less as mustering his thoughts for expression than as one inly deliberating how best to put them to well-meaning men not intellectually mature, men with whom it was necessary to demonstrate certain principles that were axioms to himself. Similar impatience as to talking is perhaps one reason that deters some minds from addressing any popular assemblies. When speak he did, something, both in the substance of what he said and his manner of saying it, showed the influence of unshared studies modifying and tempering the practical training of an active career. This, along with his phraseology, now and then was suggestive of the grounds whereon rested that imputation of a certain pedantry socially alleged against him by certain naval men of wholly practical cast, captains who nevertheless would frankly concede that His Majesty’s navy mustered no more efficient officer of their grade than Starry Vere. What he said was to this effect: “Hitherto I have been but the witness, little more; and I should hardly think now to take another tone, that of your coadjutor for the time, did I not perceive in you—at the crisis too—a troubled hesitancy, proceeding, I doubt not, from the clash of military duty with moral scruple—scruple vitalized by compassion. For the compassion, how can I otherwise than share it? But, mindful of paramount obligations, I strive against scruples that may tend to enervate decision. Not, gentlemen, that I hide from myself that the case is an exceptional one. Speculatively regarded, it well might be referred to a jury of casuists. But for us here, acting not as casuists or moralists, it is a case practical, and under martial law practically to be dealt with. “But your scruples: do they move as in a dusk? Challenge them. Make them advance and declare themselves. Come now; do they import something like this: If, mindless of palliating circumstances, we are bound to regard the death of the master-at-arms as the prisoner’s deed, then does that deed constitute a capital crime whereof the penalty is a mortal one? But in natural justice is nothing but the prisoner’s overt act to be considered? How can we adjudge to summary and shameful death a fellow creature innocent before God, and whom we feel to be so?—Does that state it aright? You sign sad assent. Well, I too feel that, the full force of that. It is Nature. But do these buttons that we wear attest that our allegiance is to Nature? No, to the King. Though the ocean, which is inviolate Nature primeval, though this be the element where we move and have our being as sailors, yet as the King’s officers lies our duty in a sphere correspondingly natural? So little is that true, that in receiv-

82 Herman Melville ing our commissions we in the most important regards ceased to be natural free agents. When war is declared are we the commissioned fighters previously consulted? We fight at command. If our judgments approve the war, that is but coincidence. So in other particulars. So now. For suppose condemnation to follow these present proceedings. Would it be so much we ourselves that would condemn as it would be martial law operating through us? For that law and the rigor of it, we are not responsible. Our vowed responsibility is in this: That however pitilessly that law may operate in any instances, we nevertheless adhere to it and administer it. “But the exceptional in the matter moves the hearts within you. Even so too is mine moved. But let not warm hearts betray heads that should be cool. Ashore in a criminal case, will an upright judge allow himself off the bench to be waylaid by some tender kinswoman of the accused seeking to touch him with her tearful plea? Well, the heart here, sometimes the feminine in man, is as that piteous woman, and, hard though it be, she must here be ruled out.” He paused, earnestly studying them for a moment; then resumed. “But something in your aspect seems to urge that it is not solely the heart that moves in you, but also the conscience, the private conscience. But tell me whether or not, occupying the position we do, private conscience should not yield to that imperial one formulated in the code under which alone we officially proceed?” Here the three men moved in their seats, less convinced than agitated by the course of an argument troubling but the more the spontaneous conflict within. Perceiving which, the speaker paused for a moment; then, abruptly changing his tone, went on. “To steady us a bit, let us recur to the facts.—In wartime at sea a man- of-war’s man strikes his superior in grade, and the blow kills. Apart from its effect the blow itself is, according to the Articles of War, a capital crime. Furthermore——” “Ay, Sir,” emotionally broke in the officer of marines, “in one sense it was. But surely Budd purposed neither mutiny nor homicide.” “Surely not, my good man. And before a court less arbitrary and more merciful than a martial one, that plea would largely extenuate. At the Last Assizes it shall acquit. But how here? We proceed under the law of the Mutiny Act. In feature no child can resemble his father more than that act resembles in spirit the thing from which it derives—War. In His Majesty’s service—in this ship, indeed—there are Englishmen forced to fight for the King against their will. Against their conscience, for aught

83B I LLY B U D D we know. Though as their fellow creatures some of us may appreciate their position, yet as navy officers what reck we of it? Still less recks the enemy. Our impressed men he would fain cut down in the same swath with our volunteers. As regards the enemy’s naval conscripts, some of whom may even share our own abhorrence of the regicidal French Directory, it is the same on our side. War looks but to the frontage, the appearance. And the Mutiny Act, War’s child, takes after the father. Budd’s intent or nonintent is nothing to the purpose. “But while, put to it by those anxieties in you which I cannot but respect, I only repeat myself—while thus strangely we prolong proceedings that should be summary—the enemy may be sighted and an engagement result. We must do; and one of two things must we do—condemn or let go.” “Can we not convict and yet mitigate the penalty?” asked the sailing master, here speaking, and falteringly, for the first. “Gentlemen, were that clearly lawful for us under the circumstances, consider the consequences of such clemency. The people” (meaning the ship’s company) “have native sense; most of them are familiar with our naval usage and tradition; and how would they take it? Even could you explain to them—which our official position forbids—they, long molded by arbitrary discipline, have not that kind of intelligent responsiveness that might qualify them to comprehend and discriminate. No, to the people the foretopman’s deed, however it be worded in the announcement, will be plain homicide committed in a flagrant act of mutiny. What penalty for that should follow, they know. But it does not follow. Why? they will ruminate. You know what sailors are. Will they not revert to the recent outbreak at the Nore? Ay. They know the well- founded alarm—the panic it struck throughout England. Your clement sentence they would account pusillanimous. They would think that we flinch, that we are afraid of them—afraid of practicing a lawful rigor singularly demanded at this juncture, lest it should provoke new troubles. What shame to us such a conjecture on their part, and how deadly to discipline. You see then whither, prompted by duty and the law, I steadfastly drive. But I beseech you, my friends, do not take me amiss. I feel as you do for this unfortunate boy. But did he know our hearts, I take him to be of that generous nature that he would feel even for us on whom in this military necessity so heavy a compulsion is laid.” With that, crossing the deck he resumed his place by the sashed port- hole, tacitly leaving the three to come to a decision. On the cabin’s opposite side the troubled court sat silent. Loyal lieges, plain and practical, though at bottom they dissented from some points Captain Vere had put

84 Herman Melville to them, they were without the faculty, hardly had the inclination, to gainsay one whom they felt to be an earnest man, one too not less their superior in mind than in naval rank. But it is not improbable that even such of his words as were not without influence over them less came home to them than his closing appeal to their instinct as sea officers: in the forethought he threw out as to the practical consequences to discipline, considering the unconfirmed tone of the fleet at the time, should a man- of-war’s man’s violent killing at sea of a superior in grade be allowed to pass for aught else than a capital crime demanding prompt infliction of the penalty. Not unlikely they were brought to something more or less akin to that harassed frame of mind which in the year 1842 actuated the commander of the U.S. brig-of-war Somers to resolve, under the so-called Articles of War, articles modeled upon the English Mutiny Act, to resolve upon the execution at sea of a midshipman and two sailors as mutineers designing the seizure of the brig. Which resolution was carried out though in a time of peace and within not many days’ sail of home: an act vindicated by a naval court of inquiry subsequently convened ashore. History, and here cited without comment. True, the circumstances on board the Somers were different from those on board the Bellipotent. But the urgency felt, well-warranted or otherwise, was much the same. Says a writer whom few know, “Forty years after a battle it is easy for a noncombatant to reason about how it ought to have been fought. It is another thing personally and under fire to have to direct the fighting while involved in the obscuring smoke of it. Much so with respect to other emergencies involving considerations both practical and moral, and when it is imperative promptly to act. The greater the fog the more it imperils the steamer, and speed is put on though at the hazard of running somebody down. Little ween the snug card players in the cabin of the responsibilities of the sleepless man on the bridge.” In brief, Billy Budd was formally convicted and sentenced to be hung at the yardarm in the early morning watch, it being now night. Otherwise, as is customary in such cases, the sentence would forthwith have been carried out. In wartime on the field or in the fleet, a mortal punishment decreed by a drumhead court—on the field sometimes decreed by but a nod from the general—follows without delay on the heel of conviction, without appeal. It was Captain Vere himself who of his own motion communicated the finding of the court to the prisoner, for that purpose going to the com-

85B I LLY B U D D partment where he was in custody and bidding the marine there to withdraw for the time. Beyond the communication of the sentence, what took place at this interview was never known. But in view of the character of the twain briefly closeted in that stateroom, each radically sharing in the rarer qualities of our nature—so rare indeed as to be all but incredible to average minds however much cultivated—some conjectures may be ventured. It would have been in consonance with the spirit of Captain Vere should he on this occasion have concealed nothing from the condemned one—should he indeed have frankly disclosed to him the part he himself had played in bringing about the decision, at the same time revealing his actuating motives. On Billy’s side it is not improbable that such a confession would have been received in much the same spirit that prompted it. Not without a sort of joy, indeed, he might have appreciated the brave opinion of him implied in his captain’s making such a confidant of him. Nor, as to the sentence itself, could he have been insensible that it was imparted to him as to one not afraid to die. Even more may have been. Captain Vere in end may have developed the passion sometimes latent under an exterior stoical or indifferent. He was old enough to have been Billy’s father. The austere devotee of military duty, letting himself melt back into what remains primeval in our formalized humanity, may in end have caught Billy to his heart, even as Abraham may have caught young Isaac on the brink of resolutely offering him up in obedience to the exacting behest. But there is no telling the sacrament, seldom if in any case revealed to the gadding world, wherever under circumstances at all akin to those here attempted to be set forth two of great Nature’s nobler order embrace. There is privacy at the time, inviolable to the survivor; and holy oblivion, the sequel to each diviner magnanimity, providentially covers all at last. The first to encounter Captain Vere in act of leaving the compartment was the senior lieutenant. The face he beheld, for the moment one expressive of the agony of the strong, was to that officer, though a man of fifty, a startling revelation. That the condemned one suffered less than he who mainly had effected the condemnation was apparently indicated by the former’s exclamation in the scene soon perforce to be touched upon. Of a series of incidents within a brief term rapidly following each other, the adequate narration may take up a term less brief, especially if explanation or comment here and there seem requisite to the better under-

86 Herman Melville standing of such incidents. Between the entrance into the cabin of him who never left it alive, and him who when he did leave it left it as one condemned to die; between this and the closeted interview just given, less than an hour and a half had elapsed. It was an interval long enough, however, to awaken speculations among no few of the ship’s company as to what it was that could be detaining in the cabin the master-at-arms and the sailor; for a rumor that both of them had been seen to enter it and neither of them had been seen to emerge, this rumor had got abroad upon the gun decks and in the tops, the people of a great warship being in one respect like villagers, taking microscopic note of every outward movement or nonmovement going on. When, therefore, in weather not at all tempestuous, all hands were called in the second dogwatch, a summons under such circumstances not usual in those hours, the crew were not wholly unprepared for some announcement extraordinary, one having connection too with the continued absence of the two men from their wonted haunts. There was a moderate sea at the time; and the moon, newly risen and near to being at its full, silvered the white spar deck wherever not blotted by the clear-cut shadows horizontally thrown of fixtures and moving men. On either side the quarter-deck the marine guard under arms was drawn up; and Captain Vere, standing in his place surrounded by all the wardroom officers, addressed his men. In so doing, his manner showed neither more nor less than that properly pertaining to his supreme position aboard his own ship. In clear terms and concise he told them what had taken place in the cabin: that the master-at-arms was dead, that he who had killed him had been already tried by a summary court and condemned to death, and that the execution would take place in the early morning watch. The word mutiny was not named in what he said. He refrained too from making the occasion an opportunity for any preachment as to the maintenance of discipline, thinking perhaps that under existing circumstances in the navy the consequence of violating discipline should be made to speak for itself. Their captain’s announcement was listened to by the throng of standing sailors in a dumbness like that of a seated congregation of believers in hell listening to the clergyman’s announcement of his Calvinistic text. At the close, however, a confused murmur went up. It began to wax. All but instantly, then, at a sign, it was pierced and suppressed by shrill whistles of the boatswain and his mates. The word was given to about ship. To be prepared for burial Claggart’s body was delivered to certain petty officers of his mess. And here, not to clog the sequel with lateral

87B I LLY B U D D matters, it may be added that, at a suitable hour, the master-at-arms was committed to the sea with every funeral honor properly belonging to his naval grade. In this proceeding, as in every public one growing out of the tragedy, strict adherence to usage was observed. Nor in any point could it have been at all deviated from, either with respect to Claggart or Billy Budd, without begetting undesirable speculations in the ship’s company, sailors, and more particularly men-of-war’s men, being of all men the greatest sticklers for usage. For similar cause, all communication between Captain Vere and the condemned one ended with the closeted interview already given, the latter being now surrendered to the ordinary routine preliminary to the end. His transfer under guard from the captain’s quarters was effected without unusual precautions—at least no visible ones. If possible, not to let the men so much as surmise that their officers anticipate aught amiss from them is the tacit rule in a military ship. And the more that some sort of trouble should really be apprehended, the more do the officers keep that apprehension to themselves, though not the less unostentatious vigilance may be augmented. In the present instance, the sentry placed over the prisoner had strict orders to let no one have communication with him but the chaplain. And certain unobtrusive measures were taken absolutely to insure this point. In a seventy-four of the old order the deck known as the upper gun deck was the one covered over by the spar deck, which last, though not without its armament, was for the most part exposed to the weather. In general it was at all hours free from hammocks; those of the crew swinging on the lower gun deck and berth deck, the latter being not only a dormitory but also the place for the stowing of the sailors’ bags, and on both sides lined with the large chests or movable pantries of the many messes of the men. On the starboard side of the Bellipotent’s upper gun deck, behold Billy Budd under sentry lying prone in irons in one of the bays formed by the regular spacing of the guns comprising the batteries on either side. All these pieces were of the heavier caliber of that period. Mounted on lumbering wooden carriages, they were hampered with cumbersome harness of breeching and strong side tackles for running them out. Guns and carriages, together with the long rammers and shorter linstocks lodged in loops overhead—all these, as customary, were painted black; and the heavy hempen breechings, tarred to the same tint, wore the like livery of the undertakers. In contrast with the funeral hue of these surroundings, the prone sailor’s exterior apparel, white jumper and white

88 Herman Melville duck trousers, each more or less soiled, dimly glimmered in the obscure light of the bay like a patch of discolored snow in early April lingering at some upland cave’s black mouth. In effect he is already in his shroud, or the garments that shall serve him in lieu of one. Over him but scarce illuminating him, two battle lanterns swing from two massive beams of the deck above. Fed with the oil supplied by the war contractors (whose gains, honest or otherwise, are in every land an anticipated portion of the harvest of death), with flickering splashes of dirty yellow light they pollute the pale moonshine all but ineffectually struggling in obstructed flecks through the open ports from which the tampioned cannon protrude. Other lanterns at intervals serve but to bring out somewhat the obscurer bays which, like small confessionals or side chapels in a cathedral, branch from the long dim-vistaed broad aisle between the two batteries of that covered tier. Such was the deck where now lay the Handsome Sailor. Through the rosetan of his complexion no pallor could have shown. It would have taken days of sequestration from the winds and the sun to have brought about the effacement of that. But the skeleton in the cheekbone at the point of its angle was just beginning delicately to be defined under the warm-tinted skin. In fervid hearts self-contained, some brief experiences devour our human tissue as secret fire in a ship’s hold consumes cotton in the bale. But now lying between the two guns, as nipped in the vice of fate, Billy’s agony, mainly proceeding from a generous young heart’s virgin experience of the diabolical incarnate and effective in some men—the tension of that agony was over now. It survived not the something healing in the closeted interview with Captain Vere. Without movement, he lay as in a trance, that adolescent expression previously noted as his taking on something akin to the look of a slumbering child in the cradle when the warm hearth glow of the still chamber at night plays on the dimples that at whiles mysteriously form in the cheek, silently coming and going there. For now and then in the gyved one’s trance a serene happy light born of some wandering reminiscence or dream would diffuse itself over his face, and then wane away only anew to return. The chaplain, coming to see him and finding him thus, and perceiving no sign that he was conscious of his presence, attentively regarded him for a space, then slipping aside, withdrew for the time, peradventure feeling that even he, the minister of Christ though receiving his stipend from Mars, had no consolation to proffer which could result in a peace transcending that which he beheld. But in the small hours he came again.

89B I LLY B U D D And the prisoner, now awake to his surroundings, noticed his approach, and civilly, all but cheerfully, welcomed him. But it was to little purpose that in the interview following, the good man sought to bring Billy Budd to some godly understanding that he must die, and at dawn. True, Billy himself freely referred to his death as a thing close at hand; but it was something in the way that children will refer to death in general, who yet among their other sports will play a funeral with hearse and mourners. Not that like children Billy was incapable of conceiving what death really is. No, but he was wholly without irrational fear of it, a fear more prevalent in highly civilized communities than those so-called barbarous ones which in all respects stand nearer to unadulterate Nature. And, as elsewhere said, a barbarian Billy radically was—as much so, for all the costume, as his countrymen the British captives, living trophies, made to march in the Roman triumph of Germanicus. Quite as much so as those later barbarians, young men probably, and picked specimens among the earlier British converts to Christianity, at least nominally such, taken to Rome (as today converts from lesser isles of the sea may be taken to London), of whom the Pope of that time, admiring the strangeness of their personal beauty so unlike the Italian stamp, their clear ruddy complexion and curled flaxen locks, exclaimed, “Angles” (meaning English, the modern derivative), “Angles, do you call them? And is it because they look so like angels?” Had it been later in time, one would think that the Pope had in mind Fra Angelico’s seraphs, some of whom, plucking apples in gardens of the Hesperides, have the faint rosebud complexion of the more beautiful English girls. If in vain the good chaplain sought to impress the young barbarian with ideas of death akin to those conveyed in the skull, dial, and cross- bones on old tombstones, equally futile to all appearance were his efforts to bring home to him the thought of salvation and a Savior. Billy listened, but less out of awe or reverence, perhaps, than from a certain natural politeness, doubtless at bottom regarding all that in much the same way that most mariners of his class take any discourse abstract or out of the common tone of the workaday world. And this sailor way of taking clerical discourse is not wholly unlike the way in which the primer of Christianity, full of transcendent miracles, was received long ago on tropic isles by any superior savage, so called—a Tahitian, say, of Captain Cook’s time or shortly after that time. Out of natural courtesy he received, but did not appropriate. It was like a gift placed in the palm of an outreached hand upon which the fingers do not close. But the Bellipotent’s chaplain was a discreet man possessing the good

90 Herman Melville sense of a good heart. So he insisted not in his vocation here. At the instance of Captain Vere, a lieutenant had apprised him of pretty much everything as to Billy; and since he felt that innocence was even a better thing than religion wherewith to go to Judgment, he reluctantly withdrew; but in his emotion not without first performing an act strange enough in an Englishman, and under the circumstances yet more so in any regular priest. Stooping over, he kissed on the fair cheek his fellow man, a felon in martial law, one whom though on the confines of death he felt he could never convert to a dogma; nor for all that did he fear for his future. Marvel not that having been made acquainted with the young sailor’s essential innocence the worthy man lifted not a finger to avert the doom of such a martyr to martial discipline. So to do would not only have been as idle as invoking the desert but would also have been an audacious transgression of the bounds of his function, one as exactly prescribed to him by military law as that of the boatswain or any other naval officer. Bluntly put, a chaplain is the minister of the Prince of Peace serving in the host of the God of War—Mars. As such, he is as incongruous as a musket would be on the altar at Christmas. Why, then, is he there? Because he indirectly subserves the purpose attested by the cannon; because too he lends the sanction of the religion of the meek to that which practically is the abrogation of everything but brute force. The night so luminous on the spar deck, but otherwise on the cavernous ones below, levels so like the tiered galleries in a coal mine— the luminous night passed away. But like the prophet in the chariot disappearing in heaven and dropping his mantle to Elisha, the withdrawing night transferred its pale robe to the breaking day. A meek, shy light appeared in the east, where stretched a diaphanous fleece of white furrowed vapor. That light slowly waxed. Suddenly eight bells was struck aft, responded to by one louder metallic stroke from forward. It was four o’clock in the morning. Instantly the silver whistles were heard summoning all hands to witness punishment. Up through the great hatchways rimmed with racks of heavy shot the watch below came pouring, overspreading with the watch already on deck the space between the mainmast and foremast including that occupied by the capacious launch and the black booms tiered on either side of it, boat and booms making a summit of observation for the powder boys and younger tars. A different group comprising one watch of topmen leaned over the rail of that sea balcony, no small one in a seventy-four, looking down on the crowd be-

91B I LLY B U D D low. Man or boy, none spake but in whisper, and few spake at all. Captain Vere—as before, the central figure among the assembled commissioned officers—stood nigh the break of the poop deck facing forward. Just below him on the quarter-deck the marines in full equipment were drawn up much as at the scene of the promulgated sentence. At sea in the old time, the execution by halter of a military sailor was generally from the foreyard. In the present instance, for special reasons the main yard was assigned. Under an arm of that yard the prisoner was presently brought up, the chaplain attending him. It was noted at the time, and remarked upon afterwards, that in this final scene the good man evinced little or nothing of the perfunctory. Brief speech indeed he had with the condemned one, but the genuine Gospel was less on his tongue than in his aspect and manner towards him. The final preparations personal to the latter being speedily brought to an end by two boatswain’s mates, the consummation impended. Billy stood facing aft. At the penultimate moment, his words, his only ones, words wholly unobstructed in the utterance, were these: “God bless Captain Vere!” Syllables so unanticipated coming from one with the ignominious hemp about his neck—a conventional felon’s benediction directed aft towards the quarters of honor; syllables, too, delivered in the clear melody of a singing bird on the point of launching from the twig—had a phenomenal effect, not unenhanced by the rare personal beauty of the young sailor, spiritualized now through late experiences so poignantly profound. Without volition, as it were, as if indeed the ship’s populace were but the vehicles of some vocal current electric, with one voice from alow and aloft came a resonant sympathetic echo: “God bless Captain Vere!” And yet at that instant Billy alone must have been in their hearts, even as in their eyes. At the pronounced words and the spontaneous echo that voluminously rebounded them, Captain Vere, either through stoic self-control or a sort of momentary paralysis induced by emotional shock, stood erectly rigid as a musket in the shiparmorer’s rack. The hull, deliberately recovering from the periodic roll to leeward, was just regaining an even keel when the last signal, a preconcerted dumb one, was given. At the same moment it chanced that the vapory fleece hanging low in the east was shot through with a soft glory as of the fleece of the Lamb of God seen in mystical vision, and simultaneously therewith, watched by the wedged mass of upturned faces, Billy ascended; and, ascending, took the full rose of the dawn. In the pinioned figure arrived at the yard-end, to the wonder of all

92 Herman Melville no motion was apparent, none save that created by the slow roll of the hull in moderate weather, so majestic in a great ship ponderously cannoned. When some days afterwards, in reference to the singularity just mentioned, the purser, a rather ruddy, rotund person more accurate as an accountant than profound as a philosopher, said at mess to the surgeon, “What testimony to the force lodged in will power,” the latter, saturnine, spare, and tall, one in whom a discreet causticity went along with a manner less genial than polite, replied, “Your pardon, Mr. Purser. In a hanging scientifically conducted—and under special orders I myself directed how Budd’s was to be effected—any movement following the completed suspension and originating in the body suspended, such movement indicates mechanical spasm in the muscular system. Hence the absence of that is no more attributable to will power, as you call it, than to horsepower—begging your pardon.” “But this muscular spasm you speak of, is not that in a degree more or less invariable in these cases?” “Assuredly so, Mr. Purser.” “How then, my good Sir, do you account for its absence in this instance?” “Mr. Purser, it is clear that your sense of the singularity in this matter equals not mine. You account for it by what you call will power—a term not yet included in the lexicon of science. For me, I do not, with my present knowledge, pretend to account for it at all. Even should we assume the hypothesis that at the first touch of the halyards the action of Budd’s heart, intensified by extraordinary emotion at its climax, abruptly stopped—much like a watch when in carelessly winding it up you strain at the finish, thus snapping the chain—even under that hypothesis how account for the phenomenon that followed?” “You admit, then, that the absence of spasmodic movement was phenomenal.” “It was phenomenal, Mr. Purser, in the sense that it was an appearance the cause of which is not immediately to be assigned.” “But tell me, my dear Sir,” pertinaciously continued the other, “was the man’s death effected by the halter, or was it a species of euthanasia?” “Euthanasia, Mr. Purser, is something like your will power: I doubt its authenticity as a scientific term—begging your pardon again. It is at once imaginative and metaphysical—in short, Greek. But,” abruptly changing his tone, “there is a case in the sick bay that I do not care to

93B I LLY B U D D leave to my assistants. Beg your pardon, but excuse me.” And rising from the mess he formally withdrew. The silence at the moment of execution and for a moment or two continuing thereafter, a silence but emphasized by the regular wash of the sea against the hull or the flutter of a sail caused by the helmsman’s eyes being tempted astray, this emphasized silence was gradually disturbed by a sound not easily to be verbally rendered. Whoever has heard the freshet wave of a torrent suddenly swelled by pouring showers in tropical mountains, showers not shared by the plain; whoever has heard the first muffled murmur of its sloping advance through precipitous woods may form some conception of the sound now heard. The seeming remoteness of its source was because of its murmurous indistinctness, since it came from close by, even from the men massed on the ship’s open deck. Being inarticulate, it was dubious in significance further than it seemed to indicate some capricious revulsion of thought or feeling such as mobs ashore are liable to, in the present instance possibly implying a sullen revocation on the men’s part of their involuntary echoing of Billy’s benediction. But ere the murmur had time to wax into clamor it was met by a strategic command, the more telling that it came with abrupt unexpectedness: “Pipe down the starboard watch, Boatswain, and see that they go.” Shrill as the shriek of the sea hawk, the silver whistles of the boat- swain and his mates pierced that ominous low sound, dissipating it; and yielding to the mechanism of discipline the throng was thinned by one- half. For the remainder, most of them were set to temporary employments connected with trimming the yards and so forth, business readily to be got up to serve occasion by any officer of the deck. Now each proceeding that follows a mortal sentence pronounced at sea by a drumhead court is characterized by promptitude not perceptibly merging into hurry, though bordering that. The hammock, the one which had been Billy’s bed when alive, having already been ballasted with shot and otherwise prepared to serve for his canvas coffin, the last offices of the sea undertakers, the sailmaker’s mates, were now speedily completed. When everything was in readiness a second call for all hands, made necessary by the strategic movement before mentioned, was sounded, now to witness burial. The details of this closing formality it needs not to give. But when the tilted plank let slide its freight into the sea, a second strange human mur- mur was heard, blended now with another inarticulate sound proceeding from certain larger seafowl who, their attention having been attracted by

94 Herman Melville the peculiar commotion in the water resulting from the heavy sloped dive of the shotted hammock into the sea, flew screaming to the spot. So near the hull did they come that the stridor or bony creak of their gaunt double-jointed pinions was audible. As the ship under light airs passed on, leaving the burial spot astern, they still kept circling it low down with the moving shadow of their outstretched wings and the croaked requiem of their cries. Upon sailors as superstitious as those of the age preceding ours, men- of-war’s men too who had just beheld the prodigy of repose in the form suspended in air, and now foundering in the deeps; to such mariners the action of the seafowl, though dictated by mere animal greed for prey, was big with no prosaic significance. An uncertain movement began among them, in which some encroachment was made. It was tolerated but for a moment. For suddenly the drum beat to quarters, which familiar sound, happening at least twice every day, had upon the present occasion a signal peremptoriness in it. True martial discipline long continued superinduces in average man a sort of impulse whose operation at the official word of command much resembles in its promptitude the effect of an instinct. The drumbeat dissolved the multitude, distributing most of them along the batteries of the two covered gun decks. There, as wonted, the guns’ crews stood by their respective cannon erect and silent. In due course the first officer, sword under arm and standing in his place on the quarter-deck, formally received the successive reports of the sworded lieutenants commanding the sections of batteries below; the last of which reports being made, the summed report he delivered with the customary salute to the commander. All this occupied time, which in the present case was the object in beating to quarters at an hour prior to the customary one. That such variance from usage was authorized by an officer like Captain Vere, a martinet as some deemed him, was evidence of the necessity for unusual action implied in what he deemed to be temporarily the mood of his men. “With mankind,” he would say, “forms, measured forms, are everything; and that is the import couched in the story of Orpheus with his lyre spellbinding the wild denizens of the wood.” And this he once applied to the disruption of forms going on across the Channel and the consequences thereof. At this unwonted muster at quarters, all proceeded as at the regular hour. The band on the quarter-deck played a sacred air, after which the chaplain went through the customary morning service. That done, the drum beat the retreat; and toned by music and religious rites subserving

95B I LLY B U D D the discipline and purposes of war, the men in their wonted orderly manner dispersed to the places allotted them when not at the guns. And now it was full day. The fleece of low-hanging vapor had vanished, licked up by the sun that late had so glorified it. And the circumambient air in the clearness of its serenity was like smooth white marble in the polished block not yet removed from the marble-dealer’s yard. The symmetry of form attainable in pure fiction cannot so readily be achieved in a narration essentially having less to do with fable than with fact. Truth uncompromisingly told will always have its ragged edges; hence the conclusion of such a narration is apt to be less finished than an architectural finial. How it fared with the Handsome Sailor during the year of the Great Mutiny has been faithfully given. But though properly the story ends with his life, something in way of sequel will not be amiss. Three brief chapters will suffice. In the general rechristening under the Directory of the craft originally forming the navy of the French monarchy, the St. Louis line-of-battle ship was named the Athée (the Atheist). Such a name, like some other substituted ones in the Revolutionary fleet, while proclaiming the infidel audacity of the ruling power, was yet, though not so intended to be, the aptest name, if one consider it, ever given to a warship; far more so indeed than the Devastation, the Erebus (the Hell), and similar names bestowed upon fighting ships. On the return passage to the English fleet from the detached cruise during which occurred the events already recorded, the Bellipotent fell in with the Athée. An engagement ensued, during which Captain Vere, in the act of putting his ship alongside the enemy with a view of throwing his boarders across her bulwarks, was hit by a musket ball from a porthole of the enemy’s main cabin. More than disabled, he dropped to the deck and was carried below to the same cockpit where some of his men already lay. The senior lieutenant took command. Under him the enemy was finally captured, and though much crippled was by rare good fortune successfully taken into Gibraltar, an English port not very distant from the scene of the fight. There, Captain Vere with the rest of the wounded was put ashore. He lingered for some days, but the end came. Unhappily he was cut off too early for the Nile and Trafalgar. The spirit that ’spite its philosophic austerity may yet have indulged in the most secret of all passions, ambition, never attained to the fullness of fame. Not long before death, while lying under the influence of that magical

96 Herman Melville drug which, soothing the physical frame, mysteriously operates on the subtler element in man, he was heard to murmur words inexplicable to his attendant: “Billy Budd, Billy Budd.” That these were not the accents of remorse would seem clear from what the attendant said to the Belli- potent’s senior officer of marines, who, as the most reluctant to condemn of the members of the drumhead court, too well knew, though here he kept the knowledge to himself, who Billy Budd was. Some few weeks after the execution, among other matters under the head of “News from the Mediterranean,” there appeared in a naval chronicle of the time, an authorized weekly publication, an account of the affair. It was doubtless for the most part written in good faith, though the medium, partly rumor, through which the facts must have reached the writer served to deflect and in part falsify them. The account was as follows: “On the tenth of the last month a deplorable occurrence took place on board H.M.S. Bellipotent. John Claggart, the ship’s master-at-arms, discovering that some sort of plot was incipient among an inferior section of the ship’s company, and that the ringleader was one William Budd; he, Claggart, in the act of arraigning the man before the captain, was vindictively stabbed to the heart by the suddenly drawn sheath knife of Budd. “The deed and the implement employed sufficiently suggest that though mustered into the service under an English name the assassin was no Englishman, but one of those aliens adopting English cognomens whom the present extraordinary necessities of the service have caused to be admitted into it in considerable numbers. “The enormity of the crime and the extreme depravity of the criminal appear the greater in view of the character of the victim, a middle-aged man respectable and discreet, belonging to that minor official grade, the petty officers, upon whom, as none know better than the commissioned gentlemen, the efficiency of His Majesty’s navy so largely depends. His function was a responsible one, at once onerous and thankless; and his fidelity in it the greater because of his strong patriotic impulse. In this instance as in so many other instances in these days, the character of this unfortunate man signally refutes, if refutation were needed, that peevish saying attributed to the late Dr. Johnson, that patriotism is the last refuge of a scoundrel. “The criminal paid the penalty of his crime. The promptitude of the punishment has proved salutary. Nothing amiss is now apprehended aboard H.M.S. Bellipotent.”

97B I LLY B U D D The above, appearing in a publication now long ago superannuated and forgotten, is all that hitherto has stood in human record to attest what manner of men respectively were John Claggart and Billy Budd. Everything is for a term venerated in navies. Any tangible object associated with some striking incident of the service is converted into a monument. The spar from which the foretopman was suspended was for some few years kept trace of by the bluejackets. Their knowledge followed it from ship to dockyard and again from dockyard to ship, still pursuing it even when at last reduced to a mere dockyard boom. To them a chip of it was as a piece of the Cross. Ignorant though they were of the secret facts of the tragedy, and not thinking but that the penalty was somehow unavoidably inflicted from the naval point of view, for all that, they instinctively felt that Billy was a sort of man as incapable of mutiny as of willful murder. They recalled the fresh young image of the Handsome Sailor, that face never deformed by a sneer or subtler vile freak of the heart within. This impression of him was doubtless deepened by the fact that he was gone, and in a measure mysteriously gone. On the gun decks of the Bellipotent the general estimate of his nature and its unconscious simplicity eventually found rude utterance from another foretopman, one of his own watch, gifted, as some sailors are, with an artless poetic temperament. The tarry hand made some lines which, after circulating among the shipboard crews for a while, finally got rudely printed at Portsmouth as a ballad. The title given to it was the sailor’s. BILLY IN THE DARBIES Good of the chaplain to enter Lone Bay And down on his marrowbones here and pray For the likes just o’ me, Billy Budd.—But, look: Through the port comes the moonshine astray! It tips the guard’s cutlass and silvers this nook; But ’twill die in the dawning of Billy’s last day. A jewel block they’ll make of me tomorrow, Pendant pearl from the yardarm-end Like the eardrop I gave to Bristol Molly— O, ’tis me, not the sentence they’ll suspend. Ay, ay, all is up; and I must up too, Early in the morning, aloft from alow. On an empty stomach now never it would do. They’ll give me a nibble—bit o’ biscuit ere I go. Sure, a messmate will reach me the last parting cup; But, turning heads away from the hoist and the belay,

98 Herman Melville Heaven knows who will have the running of me up! No pipe to those halyards.—But aren’t it all sham? A blur’s in my eyes; it is dreaming that I am. A hatchet to my hawser? All adrift to go? The drum roll to grog, and Billy never know? But Donald he has promised to stand by the plank; So I’ll shake a friendly hand ere I sink. But—no! It is dead then I’ll be, come to think. I remember Taff the Welshman when he sank. And his cheek it was like the budding pink. But me they’ll lash in hammock, drop me deep. Fathoms down, fathoms down, how I’ll dream fast asleep. I feel it stealing now. Sentry, are you there? Just ease these darbies at the wrist, And roll me over fair! I am sleepy, and the oozy weeds about me twist. The foregoing text is from the definitive edition, BILLY BUDD, SAILOR (AN INSIDE NARRATIVE), edited with notes by Harrison Hayford and M. M. Sealts, Jr., University of Chicago Press, © 1962.

99 Ivan Bunin 1870–1953 Ivan Bunin was born in Voronezh, Russia, October 10, 1870. Hisfamily belonged to the old landed nobility. Bunin grew up on his father’s estates in central Russia. A painter at first, he turned early to writing. His first poems came out in 1889. He was twice awarded the Pushkin Prize, the second time for his translation of Longfellow’s Hiawatha. In 1909 he was elected one of the Twelve Honorary Academicians of the Russian Academy. Leo Tolstoy was also one of the twelve. In his youth Bunin was a Tolstoyan, dedicated to good works and making barrel hoops. He met the Master, a tall old man who came at him with a frighteningly quick stride and spoke gently. In Moscow Bunin was associated with the writers Leonid Andreev and Maxim Gorky and the singer Feodor Chaliapin. He was so thin that the painter Ilya Repin asked him to model for one of his angels. Bunin traveled all over Russia and visited Syria, Palestine, Egypt, Algeria, Tunisia, and the tropics. At Yalta, he and Anton Chekhov were close friends. They had a game, each repeating to the other some solemn remark the critics had made about him. “You are ‘a man of crystal purity,’ ” Chekhov would say. Bunin would reply by calling him “the singer of twilight moods.” Bunin’s novel The Village appeared in 1910. It was one of the first books to break down the traditional idealization of the Russian people in literature. Dismayed by the “utterly intolerable spectacle” of the Revolution, Bunin moved to South Russia in May, 1918. He left the country for good in February, 1920. Such works as The Gentleman from San Francisco, Suchodol, An Evening in the Spring, and The Dreams of Chang and Other Stories made him known all over the world. He lived an exile’s life in Paris and at Grasse in Pro-

100 Ivan Bunin vence. His later works include The Well of Days, Dark Avenues, and Memories and Portraits. In 1933 Bunin was awarded the Nobel Prize for literature. He died in Paris on November 8, 1953. When we read The Gentleman from San Francisco for the first time, we are so enchanted by the shimmer of a multitude of details that we hardly notice anything else. Even so, we are aware that this detail is not simply piled up, as Zola might do it. Whether it refers to the snowy winter sea, a crystal chandelier, or a little Sicilian horse, it evokes whatever it touches. We can see it and feel it. It is there. The story is created out of it. Then we notice that this detail is of two kinds, one continually played off against the other. The first is our actual world of work, hardship, and weather, but also of light on the sea, of that Italy where each island “has its especial aroma” after rain. The other is the luxury world of the transatlantic liners and the grand hotels, in which the traveler does not need to do anything at all. His whole duty consists in answering the gong—that ironic gong!—for dinner, like one of Pavlov’s salivating dogs. For a moment, at the crisis of the story, the author brings these two worlds together. Is it a period story? We feel that it is, that the author meant it to be that. Its time is easy to guess: the period not long before World War I. The travelers take tea, not cocktails, at five o’clock. Women are evidently not permitted in the ship’s bar. The Chinese stewards wear queues. But the sense of period is conveyed to us by other and more subtle intimations—by the naïveté of that young couple aboard the Atlantida hired to “play at love,” and by the general sense, displayed in the attitudes of everyone from the San Francisco gentleman to Luigi the bell-boy, that this dream world is completely insulated, permanent, and untouchable. No one knew better than Bunin that it was not. Moreover, we are aware that these two contrasted worlds are also two exclusive worlds of people. Each is covertly hostile to the other. The Gentleman from San Francisco is offended by the sight of the fishermen’s miserable stone huts; after his death, Luigi the waiter mocks him with his obsequious “Ha sonato, Signore?” at the door. Here are the two worlds of those who serve and those who are served. Those who are served, the San Franciscan and his family, are

101Ivan Bunin nameless. The “hereditary prince of a certain Asiatic kingdom” is not merely nameless, he is “travelling incognito”—a double loss of identity. Symbolic figures moving in a dream have no need of identity. They are simply kinds of people: ticketed, consigned from one port to another, summoned by gongs, unobtrusively guarded to see that they do not get out of step. And it comes to us suddenly, in a kind of ironic reversal, that these travelers are servants too—of their schedules, of their arrangements, of the need to do and see everything, to get their money’s worth. They are servants, too, of their pleasure. They are going to Europe “for two whole years . . . solely for the sake of pleasure.” Finally, the dead man is the servant of those forces—“the darkness, the ocean, the snow storm”—which govern and control all transient things.

102 The Gentleman from San Francisco Alas, alas that great city Babylon, that mighty city! The Apocalypse. he gentleman from San Francisco—neither at Naples nor at Capri had any one remembered his name—was going to the Old World for two whole years, with wife and daughter, solely for the sake of pleasure. He was firmly convinced that he was fully entitled to rest, to pleasure, to prolonged and comfortable travel, and to not a little else besides. For such a conviction he had his reasons—that, in the first place, he was rich, and, in the second, that he was only now beginning to live, despite his eight and fifty years. Until now he had not lived, but had merely existed—not at all badly, it is true, but nevertheless, putting all his hopes on the future. He had laboured with never a pause for rest 1—the coolies, whom he had imported by whole thousands, well knew what this meant! —and finally he saw that much had already been accomplished, that he had almost come abreast of those whom he had at one time set out to emulate, and he decided to enjoy breathing space. It was a custom among the class of people to which he belonged to commence their enjoyment of life with a journey to Europe, to India, to Egypt. He, too, proposed to do the same. Of course he desired, first of all, to reward himself for his years of toil; however, he rejoiced on account of his wife and daughter as well. His wife had never been distinguished for any special sensitive- ness to new impressions, but then, all elderly American women are fervid travellers. As for his daughter, a girl no longer in her first youth, and 1. More literal translation: “He worked without folding his hands” [Ed.].

103TH E G E NTLE MAN FROM SAN FRANCI SCO somewhat sickly, travel was a downright necessity for her: to say nothing of the benefit to her health, were there no fortuitous encounters during travels? It is while travelling that one may at times sit at table with a milliardaire, or scrutinize frescos by his side. The itinerary worked out by the gentleman from San Francisco was an extensive one. In December and January he hoped to enjoy the sun of southern Italy, the monuments of antiquity, the tarantella, the serenades of strolling singers, and that which men of his age relish with the utmost finesse: the love of little, youthful Neapolitaines, even though it be given not entirely without ulterior motives; he contemplated spending the Carnival in Nice, in Monte Carlo, whither the very pick of society gravitates at that time—that very society upon which all the benefits of civilization depend: not merely the cut of tuxedos, but, as well, the stability of thrones, and the declaration of wars, and the prosperity of hotels—Monte Carlo, where some give themselves up with passion to automobile and sail races; others to roulette; a third group to that which it is the custom to call flirting; a fourth, to trap-shooting, in which the pigeons, released from their cotes, soar up most gracefully above emerald- green swards, against the background of a sea that is the colour of forget- me-nots, only, in the same minute, to strike against the ground as little, crumpled clods of white. . . . The beginning of March he wanted to devote to Florence; about the time of the Passion of Our Lord to arrive at Rome, in order to hear the Miserere there; his plans also embraced Venice, and Paris, and bull-fighting in Seville, and sea-bathing in the British Islands, and Athens, and Constantinople, and Palestine, and Egypt, and even Japan—of course, be it understood, already on the return trip. . . . And everything went very well at first. It was the end of November; almost as far as Gibraltar it was necessary to navigate now through an icy murk, now amidst a blizzard of wet snow; but the ship sailed in all safety and even without rolling; the passengers the steamer was carrying proved to be many, and all of them people of note; the ship—the famous Atlantida—resembled the most expensive of European hotels, with all conveniences: an all-night bar, Turkish baths, a newspaper of its own; and life upon it flowed in accordance with a most complicated system of regulations: people got up early, to the sounds of bugles, stridently resounding through the corridors at that dark hour when day was so slowly and inimically dawning over the greyish-green desert of waters, ponderously turbulent in the mist. Putting on their flannel pyjamas, the passengers drank coffee, chocolate, cocoa; then they got into marble baths, did their exercises, inducing an

104 Ivan Bunin appetite and a sense of well-being, performed their toilet for the day, and went to breakfast. Until eleven one was supposed to promenade the decks vigorously, inhaling the fresh coolness of the ocean, or to play at shuffle- board and other games for the sake of arousing the appetite anew, and, at eleven, to seek sustenance in bouillon and sandwiches; having refreshed themselves, the passengers perused their newspaper with gusto and calmly awaited lunch, a meal still more nourishing and varied than the breakfast. The next two hours were sacred to repose—the decks were then encumbered with chaises-longues, upon which the travellers reclined, covered up with plaids, contemplating the cloud-flecked sky and the foaming hummocks flashing by over the side, or else pleasantly dozing off; at five o’clock, refreshed and put in good spirits, they were drenched with strong fragrant tea, served with cookies; at seven they were apprized by bugle signals of a dinner of nine courses. . . . And thereupon the gentleman from San Francisco, in an access of animal spirits, would hurry to his resplendent cabine de luxe, to dress. In the evening the tiers of the Atlantida gaped through the dusk as though they were fiery, countless eyes, and a great multitude of servants worked with especial feverishness in the kitchens, sculleries, and wine vaults. The ocean, heaving on the other side of the walls, was awesome; but none gave it a thought, firmly believing it under the sway of the captain, a red-haired man of monstrous bulk and ponderousness, always seeming sleepy, resembling, in his uniform frock-coat, with its golden chevrons, an enormous idol; it was only very rarely that he left his mysterious quarters to appear in public. A siren on the forecastle howled every minute in hellish sullenness and whined in frenzied malice, but not many of the diners heard the siren—it was drowned by the strains of a splendid stringed orchestra, playing exquisitely and ceaselessly in the two-tiered hall, decorated with marble; its floors covered with velvet rugs; festively flooded with the lights of crystal lustres and gilded girandoles; filled to overflowing with diamond-bedecked ladies in décolleté and men in tuxedos, graceful waiters and deferent maîtres d’hôtel—among whom one, who took orders for wines exclusively, even walked about with a chain around his neck, like a lord mayor. A tuxedo and perfect linen made the gentleman from San Francisco appear very much younger. Spare, not tall, clumsily but strongly built, groomed until he shone and moderately animated, he sat in the aureate-pearly refulgence of this palatial room, at a table with a bottle of amber Johannesberg, with countless goblets, small and large, of the thinnest glass, with a curly bouquet of curly hyacinths. There was something of the Mongol about

105TH E G E NTLE MAN FROM SAN FRANCI SCO his yellowish face with clipped silvery moustache; his large teeth gleamed with gold fillings; his stalwart, bald head glistened like old ivory. Rich, yet in keeping with her years, was the dress of his wife—a big woman, expansive and calm; elaborate, yet light and diaphanous, with an innocent frankness, was that of his daughter—tall, slender, with magnificent hair, exquisitely dressed, with breath aromatic from violet cachou and with the tenderest of tiny, rosy pimples about her lips and between her shoulder blades, just the least bit powdered. . . . The dinner lasted for two whole hours, while after dinner there was dancing in the ball-room, during which the men—the gentleman from San Francisco among their number, of course—with their feet cocked up, determined, upon the basis of the latest political and stock-exchange news, the destinies of nations, smoking Havana cigars and drinking liqueurs until they were crimson in the face, seated in the bar, where the waiters were Negroes in red jackets, the whites of their eyes resembling hard-boiled eggs with the shell off. The ocean, with a dull roar, was moiling in black mountains on the other side of the wall; the snow-gale whistled mightily through the sodden rigging; the whole steamer quivered as it mastered both the gale and the mountains, sundering to either side, as though with a plough, their shifting masses, that again and again boiled up and reared high, with tails of foam; the siren, stifled by the fog, was moaning with a deathly anguish; the look-outs up in their crow’s nest froze from the cold and grew dazed from straining their attention beyond their strength. Like to the grim and sultry depths of the infernal regions, like to their ultimate, their ninth circle, was the womb of the steamer, below the waterline— that womb where dully gurgled the gigantic furnaces, devouring with their incandescent maws mountains of hard coal, cast into them by men stripped to the waist, purple from the flames, and with smarting, filthy sweat pouring over them; whereas here, in the bar, men threw their legs over the arms of their chairs with never a care, sipping cognac and liqueurs, and were wafted among clouds of spicy smoke as they indulged in well- turned conversation; in the ball-room everything was radiant with light and warmth and joy; the dancing couples were now a-whirl in waltzes, now twisting in the tango, and the music insistently, in some delectably shameless melancholy, was suppliant always of the one, always of the same thing. . . . There was an ambassador among this brilliant throng— a lean, modest little old man; there was a great man of riches—clean- shaven, lanky, of indeterminate years, and with the appearance of a prelate, in his dress-coat of an old-fashioned cut; there was a well- known Spanish writer; there was a world-celebrated beauty, already

106 Ivan Bunin just the very least trifle faded and of an unenviable morality; there was an exquisite couple in love with each other, whom all watched with curiosity and whose happiness was unconcealed: he danced only with her; sang—and with great ability—only to her accompaniment; and everything they did was carried out so charmingly that the captain was the only one who knew that this pair was hired by Lloyd’s to play at love for a good figure, and that they had been sailing for a long time, now on one ship, now on another. At Gibraltar everybody was gladdened by the sun—it seemed to be early spring; a new passenger, whose person aroused the general interest, made his appearance on board the Atlantida—he was the hereditary prince of a certain Asiatic kingdom, travelling incognito; a little man who somehow seemed to be all made of wood, even though he was alert in his movements; broad of face, with narrow eyes, in gold-rimmed spectacles; a trifle unpleasant through the fact that his skin showed through his coarse black moustache like that of a cadaver; on the whole, however, he was charming, unpretentious, and modest. On the Mediterranean Sea there was a whiff of winter again; the billows ran high, and were as multi-coloured as the tail of a peacock; they had snowy- white crests, lashed up—although the sun was sparkling brightly and the sky was perfectly clear—by a tramontana, a chill northern wind from beyond the mountains, that was joyously and madly rushing to meet the ship. . . . Then, on the second day, the sky began to pale, the horizon became covered with mist, land was nearing; Ischia, Capri appeared; through the binoculars Naples—lumps of sugar strewn at the foot of some dove-coloured mass—could be seen; while over it and this dove-coloured thing were visible the ridges of distant mountains, vaguely glimmering with the dead whiteness of snows. There was a great number of people on deck; many of the ladies and gentlemen had already put on short, light fur coats, with the fur outside; Chinese boys, never contradictory and never speaking above a whisper, bow-legged striplings with pitch- black queues reaching to their heels and with eye-lashes as long and thick as those of young girls, were already dragging, little by little, sundry plaids, canes, and portmanteaux and grips of alligator hide toward the companionways. . . . The daughter of the gentleman from San Francisco was standing beside the prince, who had been, through a fortuitous circumstance, presented to her yesterday evening, and she pretended to be looking intently into the distance, in a direction he was pointing out to her, telling, explaining something or other to her, hurriedly and quietly. On account of his height he seemed a boy by contrast with others—he was

107TH E G E NTLE MAN FROM SAN FRANCI SCO queer and not at all prepossessing of person, with his spectacles, his derby, his English great-coat, while his scanty moustache looked just as if it were of horsehair, and the swarthy, thin skin seemed to be drawn tightly over his face, and somehow had the appearance of being lacquered—but the young girl was listening to him, without understanding, in her agitation, what he was saying; her heart was thumping from an incomprehensible rapture before his presence and from pride that he was speaking with her, and not some other; everything about him that was different from others—his lean hands, his clear skin, under which flowed the ancient blood of kings, even his altogether unpretentious, yet somehow distinctively neat, European dress— everything held a secret, inexplicable charm, evoked a feeling of amorousness. As for the gentleman from San Francisco himself, he, in a high silk hat, in grey spats over patent-leather shoes, kept on glancing at the famous beauty, who was standing beside him—a tall blonde of striking figure, her eyes painted in the latest Parisian fashion; she was holding a diminutive, hunched-up, mangy lap-dog on a silver chain and was chattering to it without cease. And the daughter, in some vague embarrassment, tried not to notice her father. Like all Americans of means, he was very generous on his travels, and, like all of them, believed in the full sincerity and goodwill of those who brought him food and drink with such solicitude, who served him from morn till night, forestalling his least wish; of those who guarded his cleanliness and rest, lugged his things around, summoned porters for him, delivered his trunks to hotels. Thus had it been everywhere, thus had it been on the ship, and thus was it to be in Naples as well. Naples grew, and drew nearer; the musicians, the brass of their instruments flashing, had already clustered upon the deck, and suddenly deafened everybody with the triumphant strains of a march; the gigantic captain, in his full-dress uniform, appeared upon his stage, and, like a condescending heathen god, waved his hand amiably to the passengers—and to the gentleman from San Francisco it seemed that it was for him alone that the march so beloved by proud America was thundering, that it was he whom the captain was felicitating upon a safe arrival. And every other passenger felt similarly about himself—or herself. And when the Atlantida did finally enter the harbour, had heaved to at the wharf with her many-tiered mass, black with people, and the gang-planks clattered down—what a multitude of porters and their helpers in caps with gold braid, what a multitude of different commissionaires, whistling gamins, and strapping ragamuffins with packets of coloured postal cards in their hands made a

108 Ivan Bunin rush toward the gentleman from San Francisco, with offers of their services! And he smiled, with a kindly contemptuousness, at these ragamuffins, as he went toward the automobile of precisely that hotel where there was a possibility of the prince’s stopping as well, and drawled through his teeth, now in English, now in Italian: “Go away! Via!” Life at Naples at once assumed its wonted, ordered current: in the early morning, breakfast in the sombre dining-room with its damp draught from windows opening on some sort of a stony little garden; the sky was usually overcast, holding out but little promise, and there was the usual crowd of guides at the door of the vestibule; then came the first smiles of a warm, rosy sun; there was, from the high hanging balcony, a view of Vesuvius, enveloped to its foot by radiant morning mists, and of silver and pearl eddies on the surface of the bay, and of the delicate contour of Capri against the horizon; one could see tiny burros, harnessed in twos to little carts, running down below over the quay, sticky with mire, and detachments of diminutive soldiers, marching off to somewhere or other to lively and exhilarating music. Next came the procession to the waiting automobile and the slow progress through populous, narrow, and damp corridors of streets, between tall, many- windowed houses; the inspection of lifelessly clean museums, evenly and pleasantly, yet bleakly, lit, seemingly illuminated by snow; or of cool churches, smelling of wax, which everywhere and always contain the same things: a majestic portal, screened by a heavy curtain of leather, and inside—silence, empty vastness, unobtrusive little flames of a seven- branched candlestick glowing redly in the distant depths, on an altar bedecked with laces; a solitary old woman among the dark wooden pews; slippery tombstones underfoot; and somebody’s Descent from the Cross— inevitably a celebrated one. At one o’clock there was luncheon upon the mountain of San Martino, where, toward noon, gathered not a few people of the very first quality, and where the daughter of the gentleman from San Francisco had once almost fainted away for joy, because she thought she saw the prince sitting in the hall, although she already knew through the newspapers that he had left for a temporary stay at Rome. At five came tea at the hotel, in the showy salon, so cosy with its rugs and flaming fire- places; and after that it was already time to get ready for dinner, and once more came the mighty, compelling reverberation of the gong through all the stories; once more the processions in Indian file of ladies in décolleté, rustling in their silks upon the staircases and reflected in all the mirrors; once more the palatial dining-room, widely and hospitably opened, and

109TH E G E NTLE MAN FROM SAN FRANCI SCO the red jackets of the musicians upon their platform, and the black cluster of waiters about the maître d’hôtel, who, with a skill out of the ordinary, was ladling some sort of a thick, roseate soup into plates. . . . The dinners, as everywhere else, were the crowning glory of each day; the guests dressed for them as for a rout, and these dinners were so abundant in edibles, and wines, and mineral waters, and sweets, and fruits that toward eleven o’clock at night the chambermaids were distributing through all the corridors rubber bags with hot water to warm sundry stomachs. However, the December of that year proved to be not altogether a successful one for Naples; the porters grew confused when one talked with them of the weather, and merely shrugged their shoulders guiltily, muttering that they could not recall such another year, although it was not the first year that they had been forced to mutter this, and to urge in extenuation that “something terrible is happening everywhere”; there were unheard of storms and torrents of rain on the Riviera; there was snow in Athens; Etna was also all snowed over and was aglow of nights; tourists were fleeing from Palermo in all directions, escaping from the cold. The morning sun deceived the Neapolitans every day that winter: toward noon the sky became grey and a fine rain began falling, but growing heavier and colder all the time; at such times the palms near the entrance of the hotel glistened as though they were of tin, the town seemed especially dirty and cramped, the museums exceedingly alike; the cigar stumps of the corpulent cabmen, whose rubber coats flapped in the wind like wings, seemed to have an insufferable stench, while the energetic snapping of their whips over their scrawny-necked nags was patently false; the foot-gear of the signori sweeping the rails of the tramways seemed horrible; the women, splashing through the mud, their black-haired heads bared to the rain, appeared hideously short legged; as for the dampness, and the stench of putrid fish from the sea foaming at the quay, they were a matter of course. The gentleman and the lady from San Francisco began quarrelling in the morning; their daughter either walked about pale, with a headache, or, coming to life again, went into raptures over everything, and was, at such times, both charming and beautiful: beautiful were those tender and complex emotions which had been awakened within her by meeting that homely man through whose veins flowed uncommon blood; for, after all is said and done, perhaps it is of no real importance just what it is, precisely, that awakens a maiden’s soul—whether it be money, or fame, or illustrious ancestry. . . .

110 Ivan Bunin Everybody affirmed that things were entirely different in Sorrento, in Capri—there it was both warmer and sunnier, and the lemons were in blossom, and the customs were more honest, and the wine was more natural. And so the family from San Francisco determined to set out with all its trunks to Capri, and, after seeing it all, after treading the stones where the palace of Tiberius had once stood, after visiting the fairylike caverns of the Azure Grotto, and hearing the bagpipers of Abruzzi, who for a whole month preceding Christmas wander over the island and sing the praises of the Virgin Mary, they meant to settle in Sorrento. On the day of departure—a most memorable one for the family from San Francisco!—there was no sun from the early morning. A heavy fog hid Vesuvius to the very base; this grey fog spread low over the leaden heaving of the sea that was lost to the eye at a distance of a half a mile. Capri was entirely invisible, as though there had never been such a thing in the world. And the little steamer that set out for it was so tossed from side to side that the family from San Francisco was laid prostrate upon the divans in the sorry general cabin of this tub, their feet wrapped up in plaids, and their eyes closed from nausea. Mrs. suffered, so she thought, more than anybody; she was overcome by sea-sickness several times; it seemed to her that she was dying, whereas the stewardess, who always ran up to her with a small basin—she had been, for many years, day in and day out, rolling on these waves, in freezing weather and in torrid, and yet was still tireless and kind to everybody—merely laughed. Miss was dreadfully pale and held a slice of lemon between her teeth; now she could not have been cheered even by the hope of a chance encounter with the prince at Sorrento, where he intended to be about Christmas. Mr., who was lying on his back, in roomy overcoat and large cap, never unlocked his jaws all the way over; his face had grown darker and his moustache whiter, and his head ached dreadfully: during the last days, thanks to the bad weather, he had been drinking too heavily of evenings, and had too much admired the “living pictures” in dives of recherché libertinage. But the rain kept on lashing against the jarring windows, the water from them running down on the divans; the wind, howling, bent the masts, and at times, aided by the onslaught of a wave, careened the little steamer entirely to one side, and then something in the hold would roll with a rumble. During the stops, at Castellammare, at Sorrento, things were a trifle more bearable, but even then the rocking was fearful—the shore, with all its cliffs, gardens, pigin, its pink and white hotels and hazy mountains clad in curly greenery, swayed up and down

111TH E G E NTLE MAN FROM SAN FRANCI SCO as if on a swing; boats bumped up against the sides of the ship; sailors and steerage passengers were yelling vehemently; somewhere, as though it had been crushed, a baby was wailing and smothering; a raw wind was blowing in at the door; and, from a swaying boat with a flag of the Hotel Royal, a lisping gamin was screaming, luring travellers: “Kgoya- al! Hôtel Kgoya-al! . . .” And the gentleman from San Francisco, feeling that he was an old man, which was but proper, was already thinking with sadness and melancholy of all these Royals, Splendids, Excelsiors, and of these greedy, insignificant manikins, reeking of garlic, that are called Italians. Once, having opened his eyes and raised himself from the divan, he saw, underneath the craggy steep of the shore, a cluster of stone hovels, mouldy through and through, stuck one on top of another near the very edge of the water, near boats, near all sorts of rags, tins, and brown nets—hovels so miserable that, at the recollection that this was that very Italy he had come hither to enjoy, he felt despair. . . . Finally, at twilight, the dark mass of the island began to draw near, seemingly bored through and through by little red lights near its base; the wind became softer, warmer, more fragrant; over the abating waves, as opalescent as black oil, golden pythons flowed from the lanterns on the wharf. . . . Then came the sudden rumble of the anchor, and it fell with a splash into the water; the ferocious yells of the boatmen, vying with one another, floated in from all quarters—and at once the heart grew lighter, the lights in the general cabin shone more brightly, a desire arose to eat, to drink, to smoke, to be stirring. . . . Ten minutes later the family from San Francisco had descended into a large boat; within fifteen minutes it had set foot upon the stones of the wharf, and had then got into a bright little railway car and to its buzzing started the ascent of the slope, amid the stakes of the vineyards, half-crumbled stone enclosures, and wet, gnarled orange-trees, some of them under coverings of straw—trees with thick, glossy foliage, and aglimmer with the orange fruits; all these objects were sliding downward, past the open windows of the little car, toward the base of the mountain. . . . Sweetly smells the earth of Italy after rain, and her every island has its own, its especial aroma! The island of Capri was damp and dark on this evening. But now it came into life for an instant; lights sprang up here and there, as always on the steamer’s arrival. At the top of the mountain, where stood the station of the funicular, there was another throng of those whose duty lay in receiving fittingly the gentleman from San Francisco. There were other arrivals also, but they merited no attention—several Russians, who

112 Ivan Bunin had taken up their abode in Capri, absent-minded because of their bookish meditations, unkempt, bearded, spectacled, the collars of their old drab overcoats turned up; and a group of long-legged, long-necked, round- headed German youths in Tyrolean costumes, with canvas knapsacks slung over their shoulders—these latter stood in need of nobody’s services, feeling themselves at home everywhere, and were not at all generous in their expenditures. The gentleman from San Francisco, on the other hand, who was calmly keeping aloof from both the one group and the other, was immediately noticed. He and his ladies were bustlingly assisted to get out, some men running ahead of him to show him the way: he was surrounded anew by urchins, and by those robust Caprian wives who carry on their heads the portmanteaux and trunks of respectable travellers. The wooden pattens of these women clattered over a piazzetta that seemed to belong to some opera, an electric globe swaying above it in the damp wind; the rabble of urchins burst into sharp, bird-like whistles, and, as though on a stage, the gentleman from San Francisco proceeded in their midst toward some mediaeval arch, underneath houses that had become welded into one mass, beyond which a little echoing street—with the tuft of a palm above flat roofs on its left, and with blue stars in the black sky overhead—led slopingly to the grand entrance of the hotel, glittering ahead. . . . And again it seemed that it was in honour of the guests from San Francisco that this damp little town of stone on a craggy little island of the Mediterranean Sea had come to life, that it was they who had made so happy and affable the proprietor of the hotel, that it was they only who had been waited for by the Chinese gong that now began wailing the summons to dinner through all the stories of the hotel, the instant they had set foot in the vestibule. The proprietor, a young man of haughty elegance, who had met them with a polite and exquisite bow, for a minute dumbfounded the gentleman from San Francisco: having glanced at him, the gentleman from San Francisco suddenly recalled that just the night before, among the rest of the confusion of images that had beset him in his sleep, he had seen precisely this gentleman—just like him, down to the least detail: in the same sort of frock with rounded skirts, and with the same pomaded and painstakingly combed head. Startled, he was almost taken aback; but since, from long, long before, there was not even a mustard seed of any sort of so-called mystical emotions left in his soul, his astonishment was dimmed the same instant, passing through a corridor of the hotel, he spoke jestingly to his wife and daughter of this strange coincidence of

113TH E G E NTLE MAN FROM SAN FRANCI SCO dream and reality. And only his daughter glanced at him with alarm at that moment: her heart suddenly contracted from sadness, from a feeling of their loneliness upon this foreign, dark island—a feeling so strong that she almost burst into tears. But still she said nothing of her feelings to her father—as always. An exalted personage—Rais [Rex] XVII—who had been visiting Capri, had just taken his departure, and the guests from San Francisco were given the same apartments that he had occupied. To them was assigned the handsomest and most expert chambermaid, a Belgian, whose waist was slenderly and firmly corseted, and who wore a little starched cap that looked like a pronged crown; also, the stateliest and most dignified of flunkies, a fiery-eyed Sicilian, swarthy as coal; and the nimblest of bell-boys, the short and stout Luigi, a fellow who was very fond of a joke, and who had changed many places in his time. And a minute later there was a slight tap at the door of the room of the gentleman from San Francisco—the French maître d’hôtel had come to find out if the newly arrived guests would dine, and, in the event of an answer in the affirmative—of which, however, there was no doubt—to inform them that the carte de jour consisted of crawfish, roast beef, asparagus, pheasants, and so forth. The floor was still rocking under the gentleman from San Francisco—so badly had the atrocious little Italian steamer tossed him about—but, without hurrying, with his own hands, although somewhat clumsily from being unaccustomed to such things, he shut a window that had banged upon the entrance of the maître d’hôtel and had let in the odours of the distant kitchen and of the wet flowers in the garden, and with a leisurely precision replied that they would dine, that their table must be placed at a distance from the door, at the farthest end of the dining-room, that they would drink local wine and champagne, moderately dry and only slightly chilled. The maître d’hôtel concurred in every word of his, in intonations most varied, having, however, but one significance—that there was never a doubt, nor could there possibly be any, about the correctness of the wishes of the gentleman from San Francisco, and that everything would be carried out punctiliously. In conclusion he inclined his head, and asked deferentially: “Will that be all, Sir?” And, having received a long-drawn-out “Yes” in answer, he added that the tarantella would be danced in the vestibule to-day—the dancers would be Carmella and Giuseppe, known to all Italy, and to “the entire world of tourists.” “I have seen her on post cards,” said the gentleman from San Francisco

114 Ivan Bunin in a voice devoid of all expression. “About this Giuseppe, now—is he her husband?” “Her cousin, Sir,” answered the maître d’hôtel. And, after a little wait, after considering something, the gentleman from San Francisco dismissed him with a nod. And then he began his preparations anew, as though for a wedding ceremony: he turned on all the electric lights, filling all the mirrors with reflections of light and glitter, of furniture and opened trunks; he began shaving and washing, ringing the bell every minute, while other impatient rings from his wife’s and daughter’s rooms floated through the entire corridor and interrupted his. And Luigi, in his red apron, was rushing headlong to answer the bell, with an ease peculiar to many stout men, the while he made grimaces of horror that made the chambermaids, running by with glazed porcelain pails in their hands, laugh till they cried. Having knocked on the door with his knuckles, he asked with an assumed timidity, with a respectfulness that verged on idiocy: “Ha sonato, Signore? [Did you ring, Sir?]” And from the other side of the door came an unhurried, grating voice, insultingly polite: “Yes, come in. . . .” What were the thoughts, what were the emotions of the gentleman from San Francisco on this evening that was of such portent to him? He felt nothing exceptional, for the trouble in this world is just that everything is apparently all too simple! And even if he had sensed within his soul that something was impending, he would, nevertheless, have thought that this thing would not occur for some time to come—in any case, not immediately. Besides that, like everyone who has gone through the rocking of a ship, he wanted very much to eat, was anticipating with enjoyment the first spoonful of soup, the first mouthful of wine, and performed the usual routine of dressing even with a certain degree of exhilaration that left no time for reflections. Having shaved and washed himself, having inserted several artificial teeth properly, he, standing before a mirror, wetted the remnants of his thick, pearly-grey hair and plastered it down around his swarthy-yellow skull, with brushes set in silver; drew a suit of cream-coloured silk underwear over his strong old body, beginning to be full at the waist from excesses in food, and put on silk socks and dancing slippers on his shrivelled, splayed feet; sitting down, he put in order his black trousers, drawn high by black silk braces, as well as his snowy-white shirt, with the bosom bulging out; put the links through the glossy cuffs, and began

115TH E G E NTLE MAN FROM SAN FRANCI SCO the torturous pursuit of the collar-button underneath the stiffly starched collar. The floor was still swaying beneath him, the tips of his fingers pained him greatly, the collar-button at times nipped hard the flabby skin in the hollow under his Adam’s-apple, but he was persistent and finally, his eyes glittering from the exertion, his face all livid from the collar that was choking his throat—a collar far too tight—he did contrive to accomplish his task, and sat down in exhaustion in front of the pier- glass, reflected in it from head to foot, a reflection that was repeated in all the other mirrors. “Oh, this is dreadful!” he muttered, letting his strong bald head drop, and without trying to understand, without reflecting, just what, precisely, was dreadful; then, with an accustomed and attentive glance, he inspected his stubby fingers, with gouty hardenings at the joints, and his convex nails of an almond colour, repeating, with conviction: “This is dreadful. . . .” But at this point the second gong, sonorously, as in some heathen temple, reverberated through the entire house. And, getting up quickly from his seat, the gentleman from San Francisco drew his collar still tighter with the neck-tie and his stomach by means of the low-cut vest, put on his tuxedo, drew out his cuffs, scrutinized himself once more in the mirror. . . . This Carmella, swarthy, with eyes which she knew well how to use most effectively, resembling a mulatto woman, clad in a dress of many colours, with the colour of orange predominant, must dance exceptionally, he reflected. And, stepping briskly out of his room and walking over the carpet to the next one—his wife’s—he asked, loudly, if they would be ready soon? “In five minutes, Dad!” a girl’s voice, ringing and by now gay, responded from the other side of the door. “Very well,” said the gentleman from San Francisco. And, leisurely, he walked down red-carpeted corridors and staircases, descending in search of the reading room. The servants he met stood aside and hugged, the wall to let him pass, but he kept on his way as though he had never even noticed them. An old woman who was late for dinner, already stooping, with milky hair but décolleté in a light-grey gown of silk, was hurrying with all her might, but drolly, in a hen-like manner, and he easily outstripped her. Near the glass doors of the dining- room, where all the guests had already assembled, and were beginning their dinner, he stopped before a little table piled with boxes of cigars and Egyptian cigarettes, took a large Manila cigar, and tossed three lire upon the little table; upon the closed veranda he glanced, in passing,

116 Ivan Bunin through the open window: out of the darkness he felt a breath of the balmy air upon him, thought he saw the tip of an ancient palm that had flung wide across the stars its fronds, which seemed gigantic, heard the distant, even noise of the sea floating in to him. . . . In the reading room, snug, quiet, and illuminated only above the tables, some grey- haired German was standing, rustling the newspapers—unkempt, resembling Ibsen, in round silver spectacles and with the astonished eyes of a madman. Having scrutinized him coldly, the gentleman from San Francisco sat down in a deep leather chair in a corner near a green- shaded lamp, put on his pince-nez, twitching his head because his collar was choking him, and hid himself completely behind the newspaper sheet. He rapidly ran through the headlines of certain items, read a few lines about the never ceasing Balkan War, with an accustomed gesture turned the newspaper over—when suddenly the lines flared up before him with a glassy glare, his neck became taut, his eyes bulged out, the pince-nez flew off his nose. . . . He lunged forward, tried to swallow some air, and gasped wildly; his lower jaw sank, lighting up his entire mouth with the reflection of the gold fillings; his head dropped back on his shoulder and began to sway; the bosom of his shirt bulged out like a basket—and his whole body, squirming, his heels catching the carpet, slid downward to the floor, desperately struggling with someone. Had the German not been in the reading room, the personnel of the hotel would have managed, quickly and adroitly, to hush up this dreadful occurrence; instantly, through back passages, seizing him by the head and feet, they would have rushed off the gentleman from San Francisco as far away as possible—and never a soul among the guests would have found out what he had been up to. But the German had dashed out of the reading room with a scream—he had aroused the entire house, the entire dining-room. And many jumped up from their meal, overturning their chairs; many, paling, ran toward the reading room. “What—what has happened?” was heard in all languages—and no one gave a sensible answer, no one comprehended anything, since even up to now men are amazed most of all by death, and will not, under any circumstances, believe in it. The proprietor dashed from one guest to another, trying to detain those who were running away and to pacify them with hasty assurances that this was just a trifling occurrence, a slight fainting spell of a certain gentleman from San Francisco. . . . But no one listened to him; many had seen the waiters and bell-boys tearing the neck-tie, the vest, and the rumpled tuxedo off this gentleman, and even, for some reason or other, the dancing slippers off his splayed feet, clad in black silk.

117TH E G E NTLE MAN FROM SAN FRANCI SCO But he was still struggling. He was still obdurately wrestling with death; he absolutely refused to yield to her, who had so unexpectedly and churlishly fallen upon him. His head was swaying, he rattled hoarsely, like one with his throat cut; his eyes had rolled up, like a drunkard’s. . . . When he was hurriedly carried in and laid upon a bed in room number forty-three—the smallest, the poorest, the dampest and the coldest, situated at the end of the bottom corridor—his daughter ran in, with her hair down, in a little dressing gown that had flown open, her bosom, raised up by the corset, uncovered; then his wife, big and ponderous, already dressed for dinner, her mouth rounded in terror. . . . But by now he had ceased even to bob his head. A quarter of an hour later everything in the hotel had assumed some semblance of order. But the evening was irreparably spoiled. Some guests, returning to the dining-room, finished their dinner, but in silence, with aggrieved countenances, while the proprietor would approach now one group, now another, shrugging his shoulders in polite yet impotent irritation, feeling himself guilty without guilt, assuring everybody that he understood very well “how unpleasant all this was,” and pledging his word that he would take “all measures within his power” to remove this unpleasantness. It was necessary to call off the tarantella, all unnecessary electric lights were switched off, the majority of the guests withdrew into the bar, and it became so quiet that one heard distinctly the ticking of the clock in the vestibule, whose sole occupant was a parrot, dully muttering something, fussing in his cage before going to sleep, contriving to doze off at last with one claw ludicrously stretched up to the upper perch. . . . The gentleman from San Francisco was lying upon a cheap iron bed, under coarse woollen blankets, upon which the dull light of a single bulb beat down from the ceiling. An ice-bag hung down to his moist and cold forehead. The livid face, already dead, was gradually growing cold; the hoarse rattling, expelled from the open mouth, illuminated by the reflection of gold, was growing fainter. This was no longer the gentleman from San Francisco rattling—he no longer existed—but some other. His wife, his daughter, the doctor and the servants were standing, gazing at him dully. Suddenly, that which they awaited and feared was consummated—the rattling ceased abruptly. And slowly, slowly, before the eyes of all, a pallor flowed over the face of the man who had died, and his features seemed to grow finer, to become irradiated, with a beauty which had been rightfully his in the long ago. . . . The proprietor entered. “Già è morto [He’s dead now],” said the doctor to him in a whisper. The proprietor, his face dispassionate, shrugged

118 Ivan Bunin his shoulders. The wife, down whose cheeks the tears were quietly coursing, walked up to him and timidly said that the deceased ought now to be carried to his own room. “Oh, no, Madam,” hastily, correctly, but now without any amiability and not in English, but in French, retorted the proprietor, who was not at all interested now in such trifling sums as the arrivals from San Francisco might leave in his coffers. “That is absolutely impossible, Madam,” said he, and added in explanation that he valued the apartments occupied by them very much; that, were he to carry out her wishes, everybody in Capri would know it and the tourists would shun those apartments. The young lady, who had been gazing at him strangely, sat down on a chair, and, stuffing her mouth with a handkerchief, burst into sobs. The wife dried her tears immediately, her face flaring up. She adopted a louder tone, making demands in her own language, and still incredulous of the fact that all respect for them had been completely lost. The proprietor, with a polite dignity, cut her short: if madam was not pleased with the customs of the hotel, he would not venture to detain her; and he firmly announced that the body must be gotten away this very day, at dawn, that the police had already been notified, and one of the police officers would be here very soon and would carry out all the necessary formalities. Was it possible to secure even a common coffin in Capri, madam asks? Regrettably, no—it was beyond possibility, and no one would be able to make one in time. It would be necessary to have recourse to something else. . . . For instance, English soda water came in large and long boxes. . . . It was possible to knock the partitions out of such a box. . . . At night the whole hotel slept. The window in room number forty- three was opened—it gave out upon a corner of the garden where, near a high stone wall with broken glass upon its crest, a phthisic banana-tree was growing; the electric light was switched off; the key was turned in the door, and everybody went away. The dead man remained in the darkness—the blue stars looked down upon him from the sky, a cricket with a pensive insouciance began his song in the wall. . . . In the dimly lit corridor two chambermaids were seated on a window-sill, at some darning. Luigi, in slippers, entered with a pile of clothing in his arms. “Pronto? [All ready?]” he asked solicitously, in a ringing whisper, indicating with his eyes the fearsome door at the end of the corridor. And, he waved his hand airily in that direction. . . . “Partenza!” he called out in a whisper, as though he were speeding a train, the usual phrase

119TH E G E NTLE MAN FROM SAN FRANCI SCO used in Italian depots at the departure of trains, and the chambermaids, choking with silent laughter, let their heads sink on each other’s shoulder. Thereupon, hopping softly, he ran up to the very door, gave it the merest tap, and, inclining his head to one side, in a low voice, asked with the utmost deference: “Ha sonato, Signore?” And, squeezing his throat, thrusting out his lower jaw, in a grating voice, slowly and sadly, he answered his own question, as though from the other side of the door: “Yes, come in. . . .” And at dawn, when it had become light beyond the window of room number forty-three, and a humid wind had begun to rustle the tattered leaves of the banana-tree; when the blue sky of morning had lifted and spread out over the Island of Capri, and the pure and clear-cut summit of Monte Solaro had grown aureate against the sun that was rising beyond the distant blue mountains of Italy; when the stonemasons, who were repairing the tourists’ paths on the island, had set out to work—a long box that had formerly been used for soda water was brought to room number forty-three. Soon it became very heavy, and was pressing hard against the knees of the junior porter, who bore it off briskly on a one- horse cab over the white paved highway that was sinuously winding to and fro over the slopes of Capri, among the stone walls and the vineyards, ever downwards, to the very sea. The cabby, a puny little man with reddened eyes, in an old, wretched jacket with short sleeves and in trodden-down shoes, was undergoing the after-effects of drink—he had diced the whole night through in a trattoria, and kept on lashing his sturdy little horse, tricked out in the Sicilian fashion, with all sorts of little bells livelily jingling upon the bridle with its tufts of coloured wool, and upon the brass points of its high pad; with a yard-long feather stuck in its cropped forelock, a feather that shook as the horse ran. The cabby kept silent; he was oppressed by his shiftlessness, his vices, by the fact that he had, that night, lost to the last mite all those coppers with which his pockets had been filled. But the morning was fresh; in air such as this, with the sea all around, under the morning sky, the after- effects of drink quickly evaporate, and a man is soon restored to a carefree mood, and the cabby was furthermore consoled by that unexpected sum, the opportunity to earn which had been granted him by some gentleman from San Francisco whose lifeless head was bobbing from side to side in the box at his back. . . . The little steamer—a beetle lying far down below, against the tender and vivid deep-blue with which the Bay of

120 Ivan Bunin Naples is so densely and highly flooded—was already blowing its final whistles, which reverberated loudly all over the island, whose every bend, every ridge, every stone was as distinctly visible from every point as if there were absolutely no such thing as atmosphere. Near the wharf the junior porter was joined by the senior, who was speeding with the daughter and wife of the gentleman from San Francisco in his automobile—they were pale, with eyes hollow from tears and a sleepless night. And ten minutes later the little steamer was again chugging through the water, again running toward Sorrento, toward Castellammare, carrying away from Capri, for all time, the family from San Francisco. . . . And again peace and quiet resumed their reign upon the island. Upon this island, two thousand years ago, had lived a man who had become completely enmeshed in his cruel and foul deeds, who had for some reason seized the power over millions of people in his hands, and who, having himself lost his head at the senselessness of this power and from the fear of death by assassination, lurking in ambush behind every corner, had committed cruelties beyond all measure—and humankind has remembered him for all time; and those who, in their collusion, just as incomprehensively and, in substance, just as cruelly as he, reign at present in power over this world gather from all over the earth to gaze upon the ruins of that stone villa where he had dwelt on one of the steepest ascents of the island. On this splendid morning all those who had come to Capri for just this purpose were still sleeping in the hotels, although, toward their entrances, were already being led little mouse- grey burros with red saddles, upon which, after awaking and sating themselves with food, Americans and Germans, men and women, young and old, would again clamber up ponderously this day, and after whom would again run the old Caprian beggar women, with sticks in their gnarled hands—would run over stony paths, and always uphill, up to the very summit of Mount Tiberio. Set at rest by the fact that the dead old man from San Francisco, who had likewise been planning to go with them but instead of that had only frightened them with a memento mori, had already been shipped off to Naples, the travellers slept on heavily, and the quiet of the island was still undisturbed, the shops in the city were still shut. The market-place on the piazzetta alone was carrying on traffic—in fish and greens; and the people there were all simple folk, among whom, without anything to do, as always, was standing Lorenzo the boatman, famous all over Italy, a tall old man, a carefree rake and a handsome fellow, who had served more than once as a model to many artists; he had brought, and had already sold for a song, two lobsters that

121TH E G E NTLE MAN FROM SAN FRANCI SCO he had caught that night and which were already rustling in the apron of the cook of that very hotel where the family from San Francisco had passed the night, and now he could afford to stand in calm idleness even until the evening, looking about him with a kingly bearing (a little trick of his), consciously picturesque with his tatters, clay pipe, and a red woollen berretta drooping over one ear. And, along the precipices of Monte Solaro, upon the ancient Phoenician road, hewn out of the crags, down its stone steps, two mountaineers of Abruzzi were descending from Anacapri. One had bagpipes under his leathern mantle, a large bag made from the skin of a she-goat, with two pipes; the other had something in the nature of wooden Pan’s-reeds. They went on, and all the land, joyous, splendid, sun- flooded, spread out below them: the stony humps of the island, which was lying almost in its entirety at their feet; and that fairy-like deep-blue in which it was a-swim; and the radiant morning vapours over the sea, toward the east, under the blinding sun, which was now beating down hotly, rising ever higher and higher; and, still in their morning vagueness, the mistily azure massive outlines of Italy, of her mountains near and far, whose beauty human speech is impotent to express. . . . Half-way down the pipers slackened their pace: over the path, within a grotto in the craggy side of Monte Solaro, all illumed by the sun, all bathed in its warmth and glow, in snowy-white raiment of gypsum, and in a royal crown, golden-rusty from inclement weathers, stood the Mother of God, meek and gracious, her orbs lifted up to heaven, to the eternal and happy abodes of Her thrice-blessed Son. The pipers bared their heads, put their reeds to their lips, and there poured forth their naïve and humbly jubilant praises to the sun, to the morning, to Her, the Immaculate Intercessor for all those who suffer in this evil and beautiful world, and to Him Who had been born of Her womb in a cavern at Bethlehem, in a poor shepherd’s shelter in the distant land of Judaea. . . . Meanwhile, the body of the dead old man from San Francisco was returning to its home, to a grave on the shores of the New World. Having gone through many humiliations, through much human neglect, having wandered for a week from one port warehouse to another, it had finally gotten once more on board that same famous ship upon which but so recently, with so much deference, he had been borne to the Old World. But now he was already being concealed from the quick—he was lowered in his tarred coffin deep into the black hold. And once more the ship was sailing on and on upon its long sea voyage. In the night-time it sailed past the Island of Capri, and, to one watching them from the is-

122 Ivan Bunin land, there was something sad about the ship’s lights, slowly disappearing over the dark sea. But, upon the ship itself, in its brilliant salons resplendent with lustres and marbles, there was a crowded ball that night, as usual. There was a ball on the second night also, and on the third—again in the midst of a raging snow storm, whirling over an ocean booming like a funeral mass, and heaving in mountains trapped out in mourning by the silver spindrift. The innumerable fiery eyes of the ship that was retreating into the night and the snow-gale were barely visible for the snow to the Devil watching from the crags of Gibraltar, from the stony gateway of two worlds. The Devil was as enormous as a cliff, but the ship was still more enormous than he; many-tiered, many-funnelled, created by the pride of the New Man with an ancient heart. The snow- gale smote upon its rigging and wide-throated funnels, hoary from the snow, but the ship was steadfast, firm, majestic—and awesome. Upon its topmost deck were reared, in their solitude among the snowy whirlwinds, those snug, dimly lit chambers where, plunged in a light and uneasy slumber, was its ponderous guide who resembled a heathen idol, reigning over the entire ship. He heard the pained howlings and the ferocious squealings of the storm-stifled siren, but soothed himself by the proximity of that which, in the final summing up, was incomprehensible even to himself, that which was on the other side of his wall: that large cabin, which had the appearance of being armoured, and was being constantly filled by the mysterious rumbling, quivering, and crisp sputtering of blue flames, flaring up and exploding around the pale-faced operator with a metal half-hoop upon his head. In the very depths, in the underwater womb of the Atlantida, were the thirty- thousand-pound masses of boilers and of all sorts of other machinery— dully glittering with steel, hissing out steam and exuding oil and boiling water—of that kitchen, made red-hot from infernal furnaces underneath, wherein was brewing the motion of the ship. Forces, fearful in their concentration, were bubbling, were being transmitted to its very keel, into an endlessly long catacomb, into a tunnel, illuminated by electricity, wherein slowly, with an inexorability that was crushing to the human soul, was revolving within its oily couch the gigantean shaft, exactly like a living monster that had stretched itself out in this tunnel. Meanwhile, amidship the Atlantida, its warm and luxurious cabins, its dining-halls and ball-rooms poured forth radiance and joyousness, were humming with the voices of a well-dressed gathering, were sweetly odorous with fresh flowers, and the strains of the stringed orchestra were their song. And again excruciatingly writhed and at inter-

123TH E G E NTLE MAN FROM SAN FRANCI SCO vals came together among this throng, among this glitter of lights, silks, diamonds and bared feminine shoulders, the supple pair of hired lovers: the sinfully modest, very pretty young woman, with eye-lashes cast down, with a chaste coiffure, and the well-built young man, with black hair that seemed to be pasted on, with his face pale from powder, shod in the most elegant of patent-leather foot-gear, clad in a tight- fitting dresscoat with long tails—an Adonis who resembled a huge leech. And none knew that, already for a long time, this pair had grown wearied of languishing dissemblingly in their blissful torment to the sounds of the shamelessly sad music, nor that far, far below, at the bottom of the black hold, stood a tarred coffin, in close proximity to the sombre and sultry depths of the ship that was toilsomely overpowering the darkness, the ocean, the snow storm. . . . Translated by Bernard Guilbert Guerney.

124 Nathaniel Hawthorne 1804–1864 Nathaniel Hawthorne (he added a w to the family name of Hathorne) was born in Salem, Massachusetts, on July 4, 1804. His father was a shipmaster, and one of his ancestors had been a judge in the Salem witch trials. Young Hawthorne was graduated from Bowdoin College in 1825. He went back to Salem to learn how to write. Two years later he paid for the printing of his first novel, Fanshawe, but burned all the copies he could find. His stories began to appear in many periodicals. In 1837 he published a first edition of Twice-Told Tales and enlarged it in 1842. He worked in the Boston Customhouse. For about six months in 1841, he was a founding member of Brook Farm, a Utopian community near Boston. Out of this experience came a novel, The Blithedale Romance, written eleven years later. In 1842 Hawthorne married Sophia Peabody of Salem. They settled in the Old Manse in Concord, where Emerson and Thoreau often came to visit. Their life in the g ray seventeenth-century house was commemorated in an essay, The Old Manse, and in Mosses from an Old Manse, a collection of stories published in 1846. In 1845, when he could not pay the rent, Hawthorne moved to his mother’s house in Salem. The following year he was given a political appointment in Notes from the artist: “. . . Hawthorne at age thirty-six, before he grew his mustache. The basic construction is derived from the letter A, the ‘scarlet’ letter . . . at the top, on the pillory scaffold, is Hester Prynne of The Scarlet Letter.”

126 Nathaniel Hawthorne the Salem Customhouse. Three years later he was dropped when the Whigs returned to power. At first he tried to fight his dismissal. Then, in grim anger, he sat down to write his best-known work, The Scarlet Letter, which appeared in 1850. At long last he was famous. In the following year he produced The House of the Seven Gables and The Snow-Image and Other Twice-Told Tales; in 1852 The Blithedale Romance, A Wonder-Book for Boys and Girls, and a campaign biography of Franklin Pierce, his schoolmate at Bowdoin. In 1853 came Tangle-wood Tales for Girls and Boys. During this period he lived for a while at Lenox in western Massachusetts. In nearby Pittsfield, Herman Melville was writing Moby Dick. They became mutually admiring friends. Hawthorne bought “The Wayside” house at Concord in 1852. The following year President Pierce appointed him American consul at Liverpool. He served four years there, spent most of 1858 to 1859 in Rome and Florence, and returned to England to write The Marble Faun. Back in Concord by the middle of 1860, his health “rapidly and mysteriously” worsened. In 1862 he visited the Civil War battlefields and wrote an article that contains a striking picture of Lincoln.1 On a trip with ex-President Pierce, he died at Plymouth, New Hampshire, on May 19, 1864. Hawthorne, as Newton Arvin writes, felt “a cloudy andobfuscating sense of guilt at the heart of all human relations. . . .” It is perhaps the most profound thing that can be said about him, as man or writer. The testimony comes to us in a hundred voices. Henry James, Sr. said that Hawthorne had “the look all the time . . . of a rogue who suddenly finds himself in a company of detectives.” Hawthorne himself was well aware of this quality. He once remarked, putting it lightly, that he was a “lover of the moral picturesque.” How can we help but find him one of the most puzzling of nineteenth-century writers? We hardly need to be told that Pilgrim’s Progress was a favorite of his. In certain ways he seems more a man of Bunyan’s century than of Balzac’s. Few of his stories remain plausible under any sort of hard scrutiny. They are “romance” and claim the privileges of romance. But they are moral “romance.” Like 1 See Vol. 6, pp. 168–171, in this set.

127Nathaniel Hawthorne an eighteenth-century writer, he states or implies a moral judgment on each of his characters. Who could guess that he was Flaubert’s contemporary? And even on his home ground, New England history, we get the sense that he is often uninformed, confused, or prejudiced. Why then do we read him? Because he is a powerful writer who can build a story stone by stone to its full height. Because he was perhaps the greatest historian of the Puritan conscience in America. He knew it in its darkest depth, in its involvement with every other human feeling. He came to it at that point in time when it was most in conflict with itself, when it was reaching out toward a larger and more humane life. He endured that conflict in himself and wrote it out of himself. In him, as in Melville, the sense of sin and guilt was still powerful. Like Melville, he said no to American free will, to Emerson’s optimism and his call to the self. Rappaccini’s Daughter, like The Marble Faun, may be said to have come out of his two-year sojourn in Italy. But in it the “sunny Italy” of the ballads turns “desolate” and “gloomy.” Perhaps it resembles the real Italy as little as the setting of some of his other tales resembles the New England of his own time. We cannot help but feel that all his stories take place in the Country of Hawthorne, an allegorical region as unmapped as Erewhon or Bluebeard’s domain. Through it runs the dark River of Predestination, and the Mountains of Evil are never far off. As we read Rappaccini’s Daughter, we catch ourselves asking questions. How does Giovanni, alone among unpoisonous things, escape death in Rappaccini’s garden? Why is the innocent and vital Beatrice made the carrier of evil and guilt? Is this meant to suggest the old Christian association between woman and sexual “evil”? Why are we—and Giovanni—not warned that Dr. Baglioni’s antidote may not have the effect he intended? But we concede the author’s freedom in his fable and pass on to the allegory. It stands out bold and plain: the scientist who puts himself beyond good and evil may also put himself outside the human community and work great evil in his pride of power.

128 Rappaccini’s Daughter young man, named Giovanni Guasconti, came, very long ago, from the more southern region of Italy to pursue his studies at the University of Padua. Giovanni, who had but a scanty supply of gold ducats in his pocket, took lodgings in a high and gloomy chamber of an old edifice which looked not unworthy to have been the palace of a Paduan noble, and which, in fact, exhibited over its entrance the armorial bearings of a family long since extinct. The young stranger, who was not unstudied in the great poem of his country, recollected that one of the ancestors of this family, and perhaps an occupant of this very mansion, had been pictured by Dante as a partaker of the immortal agonies of his Inferno. These reminiscences and associations, together with the tendency to heartbreak natural to a young man for the first time out of his native sphere, caused Giovanni to sigh heavily as he looked around the desolate and ill-furnished apartment. “Holy Virgin, signor!” cried old Dame Lisabetta, who, won by the youth’s remarkable beauty of person, was kindly endeavoring to give the chamber a habitable air, “what a sigh was that to come out of a young man’s heart! Do you find this old mansion gloomy? For the love of Heaven, then, put your head out of the window, and you will see as bright sunshine as you have left in Naples.” Guasconti mechanically did as the old woman advised, but could not quite agree with her that the Paduan sunshine was as cheerful as that of southern Italy. Such as it was, however, it fell upon a garden beneath the window and expended its fostering influences on a variety of plants, which seemed to have been cultivated with exceeding care. “Does this garden belong to the house?” asked Giovanni. “Heaven forbid, signor, unless it were fruitful of better pot herbs than

129RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R any that grow there now,” answered old Lisabetta. “No; that garden is cultivated by the own hands of Signor Giacomo Rappaccini, the famous doctor, who, I warrant him, has been heard of as far as Naples. It is said that he distills these plants into medicines that are as potent as a charm. Oftentimes you may see the signor doctor at work, and perchance the signora, his daughter, too, gathering the strange flowers that grow in the garden.” The old woman had now done what she could for the aspect of the chamber; and, commending the young man to the protection of the saints, took her departure. Giovanni still found no better occupation than to look down into the garden beneath his window. From its appearance, he judged it to be one of those botanic gardens which were of earlier date in Padua than elsewhere in Italy or in the world. Or, not improbably, it might once have been the pleasure place of an opulent family; for there was the ruin of a marble fountain in the center, sculptured with rare art, but so woefully shattered that it was impossible to trace the original design from the chaos of remaining fragments. The water, however, continued to gush and sparkle into the sunbeams as cheerfully as ever. A little gurgling sound ascended to the young man’s window, and made him feel as if the fountain were an immortal spirit that sung its song unceasingly and without heeding the vicissitudes around it, while one century embodied it in marble and another scattered the perishable garniture on the soil. All about the pool into which the water subsided grew various plants that seemed to require a plentiful supply of moisture for the nourishment of gigantic leaves, and, in some instances, flowers gorgeously magnificent. There was one shrub in particular, set in a marble vase in the midst of the pool, that bore a profusion of purple blossoms, each of which had the luster and richness of a gem; and the whole together made a show so resplendent that it seemed enough to illuminate the garden, even had there been no sunshine. Every portion of the soil was peopled with plants and herbs, which, if less beautiful, still bore tokens of assiduous care, as if all had their individual virtues, known to the scientific mind that fostered them. Some were placed in urns, rich with old carving, and others in common garden pots; some crept serpentlike along the ground or climbed on high, using whatever means of ascent was offered them. One plant had wreathed itself round a statue of Vertumnus, which was thus quite veiled and shrouded in a drapery of hanging foliage, so happily arranged that it might have served a sculptor for a study. While Giovanni stood at the window he heard a rustling behind a

130 Nathaniel Hawthorne screen of leaves, and became aware that a person was at work in the garden. His figure soon emerged into view, and showed itself to be that of no common laborer, but a tall, emaciated, sallow, and sickly looking man, dressed in a scholar’s garb of black. He was beyond the middle term of life, with gray hair, a thin, gray beard, and a face singularly marked with intellect and cultivation, but which could never, even in his more youthful days, have expressed much warmth of heart. Nothing could exceed the intentness with which this scientific gardener examined every shrub which grew in his path: it seemed as if he was looking into their inmost nature, making observations in regard to their creative essence, and discovering why one leaf grew in this shape and another in that, and wherefore such and such flowers differed among themselves in hue and perfume. Nevertheless, in spite of this deep intelligence on his part, there was no approach to intimacy between himself and these vegetable existences. On the contrary, he avoided their actual touch or the direct inhaling of their odors with a caution that impressed Giovanni most disagreeably; for the man’s demeanor was that of one walking among malignant influences, such as savage beasts, or deadly snakes, or evil spirits, which, should he allow them one moment of license, would wreak upon him some terrible fatality. It was strangely frightful to the young man’s imagination to see this air of insecurity in a person cultivating a garden, that most simple and innocent of human toils, and which had been alike the joy and labor of the unfallen parents of the race. Was this garden, then, the Eden of the present world? And this man, with such a perception of harm in what his own hands caused to grow—was he the Adam? The distrustful gardener, while plucking away the dead leaves or pruning the too luxuriant growth of the shrubs, defended his hands with a pair of thick gloves. Nor were these his only armor. When, in his walk through the garden, he came to the magnificent plant that hung its purple gems beside the marble fountain, he placed a kind of mask over his mouth and nostrils, as if all this beauty did but conceal a deadlier malice; but, finding his task still too dangerous, he drew back, removed the mask, and called loudly, but in the infirm voice of a person affected with inward disease, “Beatrice! Beatrice!” “Here am I, my father. What would you?” cried a rich and youthful voice from the window of the opposite house—a voice as rich as a tropical sunset, and which made Giovanni, though he knew not why, think of deep hues of purple or crimson and of perfumes heavily delectable. “Are you in the garden?”

131RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R “Yes, Beatrice,” answered the gardener, “and I need your help.” Soon there emerged from under a sculptured portal the figure of a young girl, arrayed with as much richness of taste as the most splendid of the flowers, beautiful as the day, and with a bloom so deep and vivid that one shade more would have been too much. She looked redundant with life, health, and energy; all of which attributes were bound down and compressed, as it were, and girdled tensely, in their luxuriance, by her virgin zone. Yet Giovanni’s fancy must have grown morbid while he looked down into the garden; for the impression which the fair stranger made upon him was as if here were another flower, the human sister of those vegetable ones, as beautiful as they, more beautiful than the richest of them, but still to be touched only with a glove, nor to be approached without a mask. As Beatrice came down the garden path, it was observable that she handled and inhaled the odor of several of the plants which her father had most sedulously avoided. “Here, Beatrice,” said the latter, “see how many needful offices require to be done to our chief treasure. Yet, shattered as I am, my life might pay the penalty of approaching it so closely as circumstances demand. Henceforth, I fear, this plant must be consigned to your sole charge.” “And gladly will I undertake it,” cried again the rich tones of the young lady, as she bent towards the magnificent plant and opened her arms as if to embrace it. “Yes, my sister, my splendor, it shall be Beatrice’s task to nurse and serve thee; and thou shalt reward her with thy kisses and perfumed breath, which to her is as the breath of life.” Then, with all the tenderness in her manner that was so strikingly expressed in her words, she busied herself with such attentions as the plant seemed to require; and Giovanni, at his lofty window, rubbed his eyes and almost doubted whether it were a girl tending her favorite flower, or one sister performing the duties of affection to another. The scene soon terminated. Whether Dr. Rappaccini had finished his labors in the garden, or that his watchful eye had caught the stranger’s face, he now took his daughter’s arm and retired. Night was already closing in; oppressive exhalations seemed to proceed from the plants and steal upward past the open window; and Giovanni, closing the lattice, went to his couch and dreamed of a rich flower and beautiful girl. Flower and maiden were different, and yet the same, and fraught with some strange peril in either shape. But there is an influence in the light of morning that tends to rectify whatever errors of fancy, or even of judgment, we may have incurred during the sun’s decline, or among the shadows of the night, or in the less

132 Nathaniel Hawthorne wholesome glow of moonshine. Giovanni’s first movement, on starting from sleep, was to throw open the window and gaze down into the garden which his dreams had made so fertile of mysteries. He was surprised and a little ashamed to find how real and matter-of-fact an affair it proved to be, in the first rays of the sun which gilded the dewdrops that hung upon leaf and blossom, and, while giving a brighter beauty to each rare flower, brought everything within the limits of ordinary experience. The young man rejoiced that, in the heart of the barren city, he had the privilege of overlooking this spot of lovely and luxuriant vegetation. It would serve, he said to himself, as a symbolic language to keep him in communion with Nature. Neither the sickly and thought- worn Dr. Giacomo Rappaccini, it is true, nor his brilliant daughter, were now visible; so that Giovanni could not determine how much of the singularity which he attributed to both was due to their own qualities and how much to his wonder-working fancy; but he was inclined to take a most rational view of the whole matter. In the course of the day he paid his respects to Signor Pietro Baglioni, professor of medicine in the university, a physician of eminent repute, to whom Giovanni had brought a letter of introduction. The professor was an elderly personage, apparently of genial nature, and habits that might almost be called jovial. He kept the young man to dinner, and made himself very agreeable by the freedom and liveliness of his conversation, especially when warmed by a flask or two of Tuscan wine. Giovanni, conceiving that men of science, inhabitants of the same city, must needs be on familiar terms with one another, took an opportunity to mention the name of Dr. Rappaccini. But the professor did not respond with so much cordiality as he had anticipated. “Ill would it become a teacher of the divine art of medicine,” said Professor Pietro Baglioni, in answer to a question of Giovanni, “to withhold due and well-considered praise of a physician so eminently skilled as Rappaccini; but, on the other hand, I should answer it but scantily to my conscience were I to permit a worthy youth like yourself, Signor Giovanni, the son of an ancient friend, to imbibe erroneous ideas respecting a man who might hereafter chance to hold your life and death in his hands. The truth is, our worshipful Dr. Rappaccini has as much science as any member of the faculty—with perhaps one single exception— in Padua, or all Italy; but there are certain grave objections to his professional character.” “And what are they?” asked the young man. “Has my friend Giovanni any disease of body or heart, that he is so inquisitive about physicians?” said the professor, with a smile. “But as for

133RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R Rappaccini, it is said of him—and I, who know the man well, can answer for its truth—that he cares infinitely more for science than for mankind. His patients are interesting to him only as subjects for some new experiment. He would sacrifice human life, his own among the rest, or whatever else was dearest to him, for the sake of adding so much as a grain of mustard seed to the great heap of his accumulated knowledge.” “Methinks he is an awful man indeed,” remarked Guasconti, mentally recalling the cold and purely intellectual aspect of Rappaccini. “And yet, worshipful professor, is it not a noble spirit? Are there many men capable of so spiritual a love of science?” “God forbid,” answered the professor, somewhat testily; “at least, unless they take sounder views of the healing art than those adopted by Rappaccini. It is his theory that all medicinal virtues are comprised within those substances which we term vegetable poisons. These he cultivates with his own hands, and is said even to have produced new varieties of poison, more horribly deleterious than Nature, without the assistance of this learned person, would ever have plagued the world withal. That the signor doctor does less mischief than might be expected with such dangerous substances is undeniable. Now and then, it must be owned, he has effected, or seemed to effect, a marvellous cure; but, to tell you my private mind, Signor Giovanni, he should receive little credit for such instances of success—they being probably the work of chance—but should be held strictly accountable for his failures, which may justly be considered his own work.” The youth might have taken Baglioni’s opinions with many grains of allowance had he known that there was a professional warfare of long continuance between him and Dr. Rappaccini, in which the latter was generally thought to have gained the advantage. If the reader be inclined to judge for himself, we refer him to certain black-letter tracts on both sides, preserved in the medical department of the University of Padua. “I know not, most learned professor,” returned Giovanni, after musing on what had been said of Rappaccini’s exclusive zeal for science. “I know not how dearly this physician may love his art; but surely there is one object more dear to him. He has a daughter.” “Aha!” cried the professor, with a laugh. “So now our friend Giovanni’s secret is out. You have heard of this daughter, whom all the young men in Padua are wild about, though not half a dozen have ever had the good hap to see her face. I know little of the Signora Beatrice save that Rappaccini is said to have instructed her deeply in his science, and that, young and beautiful as fame reports her, she is already qualified to fill a

134 Nathaniel Hawthorne professor’s chair. Perchance her father destines her for mine! Other absurd rumors there be, not worth talking about or listening to. So now, Signor Giovanni, drink off your glass of lachryma.” Guasconti returned to his lodgings somewhat heated with the wine he had quaffed, and which caused his brain to swim with strange fantasies in reference to Dr. Rappaccini and the beautiful Beatrice. On his way, happening to pass by a florist’s, he bought a fresh bouquet of flowers. Ascending to his chamber, he seated himself near the window, but within the shadow thrown by the depth of the wall, so that he could look down into the garden with little risk of being discovered. All beneath his eye was a solitude. The strange plants were basking in the sunshine, and now and then nodding gently to one another, as if in acknowledgment of sympathy and kindred. In the midst, by the shattered fountain, grew the magnificent shrub, with its purple gems clustering all over it; they glowed in the air, and gleamed back again out of the depths of the pool, which thus seemed to overflow with colored radiance from the rich reflection that was steeped in it. At first, as we have said, the garden was a solitude. Soon, however—as Giovanni had half hoped, half feared, would be the case—a figure appeared beneath the antique sculptured portal, and came down between the rows of plants, inhaling their various perfumes as if she were one of those beings of old classic fable that lived upon sweet odors. On again beholding Beatrice, the young man was even startled to perceive how much her beauty exceeded his recollection of it; so brilliant, so vivid, was its character, that she glowed amid the sunlight, and, as Giovanni whispered to himself, positively illuminated the more shadowy intervals of the garden path. Her face being now more revealed than on the former occasion, he was struck by its expression of simplicity and sweetness—qualities that had not entered into his idea of her character, and which made him ask anew what manner of mortal she might be. Nor did he fail again to observe, or imagine, an analogy between the beautiful girl and the gorgeous shrub that hung its gemlike flowers over the fountain—a resemblance which Beatrice seemed to have indulged a fantastic humor in heightening, both by the arrangement of her dress and the selection of its hues. Approaching the shrub, she threw open her arms, as with a passionate ardor, and drew its branches into an intimate embrace—so intimate that her features were hidden in its leafy bosom and her glistening ringlets all intermingled with the flowers. “Give me thy breath, my sister,” exclaimed Beatrice; “for I am faint with

135RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R common air. And give me this flower of thine, which I separate with gentlest fingers from the stem and place it close beside my heart.” With these words the beautiful daughter of Rappaccini plucked one of the richest blossoms of the shrub, and was about to fasten it in her bosom. But now, unless Giovanni’s draughts of wine had bewildered his senses, a singular incident occurred. A small orange-colored reptile, of the lizard or chameleon species, chanced to be creeping along the path, just at the feet of Beatrice. It appeared to Giovanni—but, at the distance from which he gazed, he could scarcely have seen anything so minute—it appeared to him, however, that a drop or two of moisture from the broken stem of the flower descended upon the lizard’s head. For an instant the reptile contorted itself violently, and then lay motionless in the sunshine. Beatrice observed this remarkable phenomenon, and crossed herself, sadly, but without surprise; nor did she therefore hesitate to arrange the fatal flower in her bosom. There it blushed, and almost glimmered with the dazzling effect of a precious stone, adding to her dress and aspect the one appropriate charm which nothing else in the world could have supplied. But Giovanni, out of the shadow of his window, bent forward and shrank back, and murmured and trembled. “Am I awake? Have I my senses?” said he to himself. “What is this being? Beautiful shall I call her, or inexpressibly terrible?” Beatrice now strayed carelessly through the garden, approaching closer beneath Giovanni’s window, so that he was compelled to thrust his head quite out of its concealment in order to gratify the intense and painful curiosity which she excited. At this moment there came a beautiful insect over the garden wall; it had, perhaps, wandered through the city, and found no flowers or verdure among those antique haunts of men until the heavy perfumes of Dr. Rappaccini’s shrubs had lured it from afar. Without alighting on the flowers, this winged brightness seemed to be attracted by Beatrice, and lingered in the air and fluttered about her head. Now, here it could not be but that Giovanni Guasconti’s eyes deceived him. Be that as it might, he fancied that, while Beatrice was gazing at the insect with childish delight, it grew faint and fell at her feet; its bright wings shivered; it was dead—from no cause that he could discern, unless it were the atmosphere of her breath. Again Beatrice crossed herself and sighed heavily as she bent over the dead insect. An impulsive movement of Giovanni drew her eyes to the window. There she beheld the beautiful head of the young man—rather a Grecian than an Italian head, with fair, regular features, and a glistening of gold

136 Nathaniel Hawthorne among his ringlets—gazing down upon her like a being that hovered in mid air. Scarcely knowing what he did, Giovanni threw down the bouquet which he had hitherto held in his hand. “Signora,” said he, “there are pure and healthful flowers. Wear them for the sake of Giovanni Guasconti.” “Thanks, signor,” replied Beatrice, with her rich voice, that came forth as it were like a gush of music, and with a mirthful expression half childish and half womanlike. “I accept your gift, and would fain recompense it with this precious purple flower; but if I toss it into the air it will not reach you. So Signor Guasconti must even content himself with my thanks.” She lifted the bouquet from the ground, and then, as if inwardly ashamed at having stepped aside from her maidenly reserve to respond to a stranger’s greeting, passed swiftly homeward through the garden. But few as the moments were, it seemed to Giovanni, when she was on the point of vanishing beneath the sculptured portal, that his beautiful bouquet was already beginning to wither in her grasp. It was an idle thought; there could be no possibility of distinguishing a faded flower from a fresh one at so great a distance. For many days after this incident the young man avoided the window that looked into Dr. Rappaccini’s garden, as if something ugly and monstrous would have blasted his eyesight had he been betrayed into a glance. He felt conscious of having put himself, to a certain extent, within the influence of an unintelligible power by the communication which he had opened with Beatrice. The wisest course would have been, if his heart were in any real danger, to quit his lodgings and Padua itself at once; the next wiser, to have accustomed himself, as far as possible, to the familiar and daylight view of Beatrice— thus bringing her rigidly and systematically within the limits of ordinary experience. Least of all, while avoiding her sight, ought Giovanni to have remained so near this extraordinary being that the proximity and possibility even of intercourse should give a kind of substance and reality to the wild vagaries which his imagination ran riot continually in producing. Guasconti had not a deep heart—or, at all events, its depths were not sounded now; but he had a quick fancy, and an ardent southern temperament, which rose every instant to a higher fever pitch. Whether or no Beatrice possessed those terrible attributes, that fatal breath, the affinity with those so beautiful and deadly flowers which were indicated by what Giovanni had witnessed, she had at least instilled a fierce and subtle poison into his system. It

137RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R was not love, although her rich beauty was a madness to him; nor horror, even while he fancied her spirit to be imbued with the same baneful essence that seemed to pervade her physical frame; but a wild offspring of both love and horror that had each parent in it, and burned like one and shivered like the other. Giovanni knew not what to dread; still less did he know what to hope; yet hope and dread kept a continual warfare in his breast, alternately vanquishing one another and starting up afresh to renew the contest. Blessed are all simple emotions, be they dark or bright! It is the lurid inter-mixture of the two that produces the illuminating blaze of the infernal regions Sometimes he endeavored to assuage the fever of his spirit by a rapid walk through the streets of Padua or beyond its gates: his footsteps kept time with the throbbings of his brain, so that the walk was apt to accelerate itself to a race. One day he found himself arrested; his arm was seized by a portly personage, who had turned back on recognizing the young man and expended much breath in overtaking him. “Signor Giovanni! Stay, my young friend!” cried he. “Have you forgotten me? That might well be the case if I were as much altered as yourself.” It was Baglioni, whom Giovanni had avoided ever since their first meeting, from a doubt that the professor’s sagacity would look too deeply into his secrets. Endeavoring to recover himself, he stared forth wildly from his inner world into the outer one and spoke like a man in a dream. “Yes; I am Giovanni Guasconti. You are Professor Pietro Baglioni. Now let me pass!” “Not yet, not yet, Signor Giovanni Guasconti,” said the professor, smiling, but at the same time scrutinizing the youth with an earnest glance. “What! did I grow up side by side with your father? and shall his son pass me like a stranger in these old streets of Padua? Stand still, Signor Giovanni; for we must have a word or two before we part.” “Speedily, then, most worshipful professor, speedily,” said Giovanni, with feverish impatience. “Does not your worship see that I am in haste?” Now, while he was speaking there came a man in black along the street, stooping and moving feebly like a person in inferior health. His face was all overspread with a most sickly and sallow hue, but yet so pervaded with an expression of piercing and active intellect that an observer might easily have overlooked the merely physical attributes and have seen only this wonderful energy. As he passed, this person exchanged a cold and distant salutation with Baglioni, but fixed his eyes upon Giovanni with an

138 Nathaniel Hawthorne intentness that seemed to bring out whatever was within him worthy of notice. Nevertheless, there was a peculiar quietness in the look, as if taking merely a speculative, not a human, interest in the young man. “It is Dr. Rappaccini!” whispered the professor when the stranger had passed. “Has he ever seen your face before?” “Not that I know,” answered Giovanni, starting at the name. “He has seen you! he must have seen you!” said Baglioni, hastily. “For some purpose or other, this man of science is making a study of you. I know that look of his! It is the same that coldly illuminates his face as he bends over a bird, a mouse, or a butterfly, which, in pursuance of some experiment, he has killed by the perfume of a flower; a look as deep as Nature itself, but without Nature’s warmth of love. Signor Giovanni, I will stake my life upon it, you are the subject of one of Rappaccini’s experiments!” “Will you make a fool of me?” cried Giovanni, passionately. “That, signor professor, were an untoward experiment.” “Patience! patience!” replied the imperturbable professor. “I tell thee, my poor Giovanni, that Rappaccini has a scientific interest in thee. Thou hast fallen into fearful hands! And the Signora Beatrice—what part does she act in this mystery?” But Guasconti, finding Baglioni’s pertinacity intolerable, here broke away, and was gone before the professor could again seize his arm. He looked after the young man intently and shook his head. “This must not be,” said Baglioni to himself. “The youth is the son of my old friend, and shall not come to any harm from which the arcana of medical science can preserve him. Besides, it is too insufferable an impertinence in Rappaccini, thus to snatch the lad out of my own hands, as I may say, and make use of him for his infernal experiments. This daughter of his! It shall be looked to. Perchance, most learned Rappaccini, I may foil you where you little dream of it!” Meanwhile Giovanni had pursued a circuitous route, and at length found himself at the door of his lodgings. As he crossed the threshold he was met by old Lisabetta, who smirked and smiled, and was evidently desirous to attract his attention; vainly, however, as the ebullition of his feelings had momentarily subsided into a cold and dull vacuity. He turned his eyes full upon the withered face that was puckering itself into a smile, but seemed to behold it not. The old dame, therefore, laid her grasp upon his cloak. “Signor! signor!” whispered she, still with a smile over the whole breadth of her visage, so that it looked not unlike a grotesque carving in

139RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R wood, darkened by centuries. “Listen, signor! There is a private entrance into the garden!” “What do you say?” exclaimed Giovanni, turning quickly about, as if an inanimate thing should start into feverish life. “A private entrance into Dr. Rappaccini’s garden?” “Hush! hush! not so loud!” whispered Lisabetta, putting her hand over his mouth. “Yes; into the worshipful doctor’s garden, where you may see all his fine shrubbery. Many a young man in Padua would give gold to be admitted among those flowers.” Giovanni put a piece of gold into her hand. “Show me the way,” said he. A surmise, probably excited by his conversation with Baglioni, crossed his mind, that this interposition of old Lisabetta might perchance be connected with the intrigue, whatever were its nature, in which the professor seemed to suppose that Dr. Rappaccini was involving him. But such a suspicion, though it disturbed Giovanni, was inadequate to restrain him. The instant that he was aware of the possibility of approaching Beatrice, it seemed an absolute necessity of his existence to do so. It mattered not whether she were angel or demon; he was irrevocably within her sphere, and must obey the law that whirled him onward, in ever-lessening circles, toward a result which he did not attempt to foreshadow; and yet, strange to say, there came across him a sudden doubt whether this intense interest on his part were not delusory; whether it were really of so deep and positive a nature as to justify him in now thrusting himself into an incalculable position; whether it were not merely the fantasy of a young man’s brain, only slightly or not at all connected with his heart. He paused, hesitated, turned half about, but again went on. His withered guide led him along several obscure passages, and finally undid a door, through which, as it was opened, there came the sight and sound of rustling leaves, with the broken sunshine glimmering among them. Giovanni stepped forth, and, forcing himself through the entanglement of a shrub that wreathed its tendrils over the hidden entrance, stood beneath his own window in the open area of Dr. Rappaccini’s garden. How often is it the case that, when impossibilities have come to pass and dreams have condensed their misty substance into tangible realities, we find ourselves calm, and even coldly self-possessed, amid circumstances which it would have been a delirium of joy or agony to anticipate! Fate delights to thwart us thus. Passion will choose his own time to rush upon the scene, and lingers sluggishly behind when an appropriate

140 Nathaniel Hawthorne adjustment of events would seem to summon his appearance. So was it now with Giovanni. Day after day his pulses had throbbed with feverish blood at the improbable idea of an interview with Beatrice, and of standing with her, face to face, in this very garden, basking in the Oriental sunshine of her beauty, and snatching from her full gaze the mystery which he deemed the riddle of his own existence. But now there was a singular and untimely equanimity within his breast. He threw a glance around the garden to discover if Beatrice or her father were present, and, perceiving that he was alone, began a critical observation of the plants. The aspect of one and all of them dissatisfied him; their gorgeousness seemed fierce, passionate, and even unnatural. There was hardly an individual shrub which a wanderer, straying by himself through a forest, would not have been startled to find growing wild, as if an unearthly face had glared at him out of the thicket. Several also would have shocked a delicate instinct by an appearance of artificialness indicating that there had been such commixture, and, as it were, adultery, of various vegetable species, that the production was no longer of God’s making, but the monstrous offspring of man’s depraved fancy, glowing with only an evil mockery of beauty. They were probably the result of experiment, which in one or two cases had succeeded in mingling plants individually lovely into a compound possessing the questionable and ominous character that distinguished the whole growth of the garden. In fine, Giovanni recognized but two or three plants in the collection, and those of a kind that he well knew to be poisonous. While busy with these contemplations he heard the rustling of a silken garment, and, turning, beheld Beatrice emerging from beneath the sculptured portal. Giovanni had not considered with himself what should be his deportment; whether he should apologize for his intrusion into the garden, or assume that he was there with the privity at least, if not by the desire, of Dr. Rappaccini or his daughter; but Beatrice’s manner placed him at his ease, though leaving him still in doubt by what agency he had gained admittance. She came lightly along the path and met him near the broken fountain. There was surprise in her face, but brightened by a simple and kind expression of pleasure. “You are a connoisseur in flowers, signor,” said Beatrice, with a smile, alluding to the bouquet which he had flung her from the window. “It is no marvel, therefore, if the sight of my father’s rare collection has tempted you to take a nearer view. If he were here, he could tell you many strange and interesting facts as to the nature and habits of these shrubs; for he has spent a lifetime in such studies, and this garden is his world.”

141RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R “And yourself, lady,” observed Giovanni, “if fame says true, you likewise are deeply skilled in the virtues indicated by these rich blossoms and these spicy perfumes. Would you deign to be my instructress, I should prove an apter scholar than if taught by Signor Rappaccini himself.” “Are there such idle rumors?” asked Beatrice, with the music of a pleasant laugh. “Do people say that I am skilled in my father’s science of plants? What a jest is there! No; though I have grown up among these flowers, I know no more of them than their hues and perfume; and sometimes methinks I would fain rid myself of even that small knowledge. There are many flowers here, and those not the least brilliant, that shock and offend me when they meet my eye. But pray, signor, do not believe these stories about my science. Believe nothing of me save what you see with your own eyes.” “And must I believe all that I have seen with my own eyes?” asked Giovanni, pointedly, while the recollection of former scenes made him shrink. “No, signora; you demand too little of me. Bid me believe nothing save what comes from your own lips.” It would appear that Beatrice understood him. There came a deep flush to her cheek; but she looked full into Giovanni’s eyes, and responded to his gaze of uneasy suspicion with a queenlike haughtiness. “I do so bid you, signor,” she replied. “Forget whatever you may have fancied in regard to me. If true to the outward senses, still it may be false in its essence; but the words of Beatrice Rappaccini’s lips are true from the depths of the heart outward. Those you may believe.” A fervor glowed in her whole aspect and beamed upon Giovanni’s consciousness like the light of truth itself; but while she spoke there was a fragrance in the atmosphere around her, rich and delightful, though evanescent, yet which the young man, from an indefinable reluctance, scarcely dared to draw into his lungs. It might be the odor of the flowers. Could it be Beatrice’s breath which thus embalmed her words with a strange richness, as if by steeping them in her heart? A faintness passed like a shadow over Giovanni and flitted away; he seemed to gaze through the beautiful girl’s eyes into her transparent soul, and felt no more doubt or fear. The tinge of passion that had colored Beatrice’s manner vanished; she became gay, and appeared to derive a pure delight from her communion with the youth, not unlike what the maiden of a lonely island might have felt conversing with a voyager from the civilized world. Evidently her experience of life had been confined within the limits of that garden. She talked now about matters as simple as the daylight or summer clouds, and

142 Nathaniel Hawthorne now asked questions in reference to the city, or Giovanni’s distant home, his friends, his mother, and his sisters—questions indicating such seclusion, and such lack of familiarity with modes and forms, that Giovanni responded as if to an infant. Her spirit gushed out before him like a fresh rill that was just catching its first glimpse of the sunlight and wondering at the reflections of earth and sky which were flung into its bosom. There came thoughts, too, from a deep source, and fantasies of a gemlike brilliancy, as if diamonds and rubies sparkled upward among the bubbles of the fountain. Ever and anon there gleamed across the young man’s mind a sense of wonder that he should be walking side by side with the being who had so wrought upon his imagination, whom he had idealized in such hues of terror, in whom he had positively witnessed such manifestations of dreadful attributes— that he should be conversing with Beatrice like a brother, and should find her so human and so maidenlike. But such reflections were only momentary; the effect of her character was too real not to make itself familiar at once. In this free intercourse they had strayed through the garden, and now, after many turns among its avenues, were come to the shattered fountain, beside which grew the magnificent shrub, with its treasury of glowing blossoms. A fragrance was diffused from it which Giovanni recognized as identical with that which he had attributed to Beatrice’s breath, but incomparably more powerful. As her eyes fell upon it, Giovanni beheld her press her hand to her bosom as if her heart were throbbing suddenly and painfully. “For the first time in my life,” murmured she, addressing the shrub, “I had forgotten thee.” “I remember, signora,” said Giovanni, “that you once promised to reward me with one of these living gems for the bouquet which I had the happy boldness to fling at your feet. Permit me now to pluck it as a memorial of this interview.” He made a step towards the shrub with extended hand; but Beatrice darted forward, uttering a shriek that went through his heart like a dagger. She caught his hand and drew it back with the whole force of her slender figure. Giovanni felt her touch thrilling through his fibers. “Touch it not!” exclaimed she, in a voice of agony. “Not for thy life! It is fatal!” Then, hiding her face, she fled from him and vanished beneath the sculptured portal. As Giovanni followed her with his eyes, he beheld the emaciated figure and pale intelligence of Dr. Rappaccini, who had been

143RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R watching the scene, he knew not how long, within the shadow of the entrance. No sooner was Guasconti alone in his chamber than the image of Beatrice came back to his passionate musings, invested with all the witchery that had been gathering around it ever since his first glimpse of her, and now likewise imbued with a tender warmth of girlish womanhood. She was human; her nature was endowed with all gentle and feminine qualities; she was worthiest to be worshiped; she was capable, surely, on her part, of the height and heroism of love. Those tokens which he had hitherto considered as proofs of a frightful peculiarity in her physical and moral system were now either forgotten or, by the subtle sophistry of passion, transmitted into a golden crown of enchantment, rendering Beatrice the more admirable by so much as she was the more unique. Whatever had looked ugly was now beautiful; or, if incapable of such a change, it stole away and hid itself among those shapeless half ideas which throng the dim region beyond the daylight of our perfect consciousness. Thus did he spend the night, nor fell asleep until the dawn had begun to awake the slumbering flowers in Dr. Rappaccini’s garden, whither Giovanni’s dreams doubtless led him. Up rose the sun in his due season, and, flinging his beams upon the young man’s eyelids, awoke him to a sense of pain. When thoroughly aroused, he became sensible of a burning and tingling agony in his hand—in his right hand—the very hand which Beatrice had grasped in her own when he was on the point of plucking one of the gemlike flowers. On the back of that hand there was now a purple print like that of four small fingers, and the likeness of a slender thumb upon his wrist. Oh, how stubbornly does love—or even that cunning semblance of love which flourishes in the imagination, but strikes no depth of root into the heart—how stubbornly does it hold its faith until the moment comes when it is doomed to vanish into thin mist! Giovanni wrapped a handkerchief about his hand and wondered what evil thing had stung him, and soon forgot his pain in a reverie of Beatrice. After the first interview, a second was in the inevitable course of what we call fate. A third; a fourth; and a meeting with Beatrice in the garden was no longer an incident in Giovanni’s daily life, but the whole space in which he might be said to live; for the anticipation and memory of that ecstatic hour made up the remainder. Nor was it otherwise with the daughter of Rappaccini. She watched for the youth’s appearance, and flew to his side with confidence as unreserved as if they had been play-

144 Nathaniel Hawthorne mates from early infancy—as if they were such playmates still. If, by any unwonted chance, he failed to come at the appointed moment, she stood beneath the window and sent up the rich sweetness of her tones to float around him in his chamber and echo and reverberate throughout his heart: “Giovanni! Giovanni! Why tarriest thou? Come down!” And down he hastened into that Eden of poisonous flowers. But, with all this intimate familiarity, there was still a reserve in Beatrice’s demeanor, so rigidly and invariably sustained that the idea of infringing it scarcely occurred to his imagination. By all appreciable signs, they loved; they had looked love with eyes that conveyed the holy secret from the depths of one soul into the depths of the other, as if it were too sacred to be whispered by the way; they had even spoken love in those gushes of passion when their spirits darted forth in articulated breath like tongues of long-hidden flame; and yet there had been no seal of lips, no clasp of hands, nor any slightest caress such as love claims and hallows. He had never touched one of the gleaming ringlets of her hair; her garment—so marked was the physical barrier between them—had never been waved against him by a breeze. On the few occasions when Giovanni had seemed tempted to overstep the limit, Beatrice grew so sad, so stern, and withal wore such a look of desolate separation, shuddering at itself, that not a spoken word was requisite to repel him. At such times he was startled at the horrible suspicions that rose, monsterlike, out of the caverns of his heart and stared him in the face; his love grew thin and faint as the morning mist, his doubts alone had substance. But, when Beatrice’s face brightened again after the momentary shadow, she was transformed at once from the mysterious, questionable being whom he had watched with so much awe and horror; she was now the beautiful and unsophisticated girl whom he felt that his spirit knew with a certainty beyond all other knowledge. A considerable time had now passed since Giovanni’s last meeting with Baglioni. One morning, however, he was disagreeably surprised by a visit from the professor, whom he had scarcely thought of for whole weeks, and would willingly have forgotten still longer. Given up as he had long been to a pervading excitement, he could tolerate no companions except upon condition of their perfect sympathy with his present state of feeling. Such sympathy was not to be expected from Professor Baglioni. The visitor chatted carelessly for a few moments about the gossip of the city and the university, and then took up another topic. “I have been reading an old classic author lately,” said he, “and met

145RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R with a story that strangely interested me. Possibly you may remember it. It is of an Indian prince, who sent a beautiful woman as a present to Alexander the Great. She was as lovely as the dawn and gorgeous as the sunset; but what especially distinguished her was a certain rich perfume in her breath—richer than a garden of Persian roses. Alexander, as was natural to a youthful conqueror, fell in love at first sight with this magnificent stranger; but a certain sage physician, happening to be present, discovered a terrible secret in regard to her.” “And what was that?” asked Giovanni, turning his eyes downward to avoid those of the professor. “That this lovely woman,” continued Baglioni, with emphasis, “had been nourished with poisons from her birth upward, until her whole nature was so imbued with them that she herself had become the deadliest poison in existence. Poison was her element of life. With that rich perfume of her breath she blasted the very air. Her love would have been poison—her embrace death. Is not this a marvellous tale?” “A childish fable,” answered Giovanni, nervously starting from his chair. “I marvel how your worship finds time to read such nonsense among your graver studies.” “By the by,” said the professor, looking uneasily about him, “what singular fragrance is this in your apartment? Is it the perfume of your gloves? It is faint, but delicious; and yet, after all, by no means agreeable. Were I to breathe it long, methinks it would make me ill. It is like the breath of a flower; but I see no flowers in the chamber.” “Nor are there any,” replied Giovanni, who had turned pale as the professor spoke; “nor, I think, is there any fragrance except in your worship’s imagination. Odors, being a sort of element combined of the sensual and the spiritual, are apt to deceive us in this manner. The recollection of a perfume, the bare idea of it, may easily be mistaken for a present reality.” “Ay; but my sober imagination does not often play such tricks,” said Baglioni; “and, were I to fancy any kind of odor, it would be that of some vile apothecary drug, wherewith my fingers are likely enough to be imbued. Our worshipful friend Rappaccini, as I have heard, tinctures his medicaments with odors richer than those of Araby. Doubtless, likewise, the fair and learned Signora Beatrice would minister to her patients with draughts as sweet as a maiden’s breath; but woe to him that sips them!” Giovanni’s face evinced many contending emotions. The tone in which the professor alluded to the pure and lovely daughter of Rappaccini was a torture to his soul; and yet the intimation of a view of her character, opposite to his own, gave instantaneous distinctness to a thou-

146 Nathaniel Hawthorne sand dim suspicions, which now grinned at him like so many demons. But he strove hard to quell them and to respond to Baglioni with a true lover’s perfect faith. “Signor professor,” said he, “you were my father’s friend; perchance, too, it is your purpose to act a friendly part towards his son. I would fain feel nothing toward you save respect and deference; but I pray you to observe, signor, that there is one subject on which we must not speak. You know not the Signora Beatrice. You cannot, therefore, estimate the wrong—the blasphemy, I may even say—that is offered to her character by a light or injurious word.” “Giovanni! my poor Giovanni!” answered the professor, with a calm expression of pity, “I know this wretched girl far better than yourself. You shall hear the truth in respect to the poisoner Rappaccini and his poisonous daughter; yes, poisonous as she is beautiful. Listen; for, even should you do violence to my gray hairs, it shall not silence me. That old fable of the Indian woman has become a truth by the deep and deadly science of Rappaccini and in the person of the lovely Beatrice.” Giovanni groaned and hid his face. “Her father,” continued Baglioni, “was not restrained by natural affection from offering up his child in this horrible manner as the victim of his insane zeal for science; for, let us do him justice, he is as true a man of science as ever distilled his own heart in an alembic. What, then, will be your fate? Beyond a doubt you are selected as the material of some new experiment. Perhaps the result is to be death; perhaps a fate more awful still. Rappaccini, with what he calls the interest of science before his eyes, will hesitate at nothing.” “It is a dream,” muttered Giovanni to himself; “surely it is a dream.” “But,” resumed the professor, “be of good cheer, son of my friend. It is not yet too late for the rescue. Possibly we may even succeed in bringing back this miserable child within the limits of ordinary nature, from which her father’s madness has estranged her. Behold this little silver vase! It was wrought by the hands of the renowned Benvenuto Cellini, and is well worthy to be a love gift to the fairest dame in Italy. But its contents are invaluable. One little sip of this antidote would have rendered the most virulent poisons of the Borgias innocuous. Doubt not that it will be as efficacious against those of Rappaccini. Bestow the vase, and the precious liquid within it, on your Beatrice, and hopefully await the result.” Baglioni laid a small, exquisitely wrought silver vial on the table and withdrew, leaving what he had said to produce its effect upon the young man’s mind.

147RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R “We will thwart Rappaccini yet,” thought he, chuckling to himself, as he descended the stairs; “but, let us confess the truth of him, he is a wonderful man—a wonderful man indeed; a vile empiric, however, in his practice, and therefore not to be tolerated by those who respect the good old rules of the medical profession.” Throughout Giovanni’s whole acquaintance with Beatrice, he had occasionally, as we have said, been haunted by dark surmises as to her character; yet so thoroughly had she made herself felt by him as a simple, natural, most affectionate, and guileless creature, that the image now held up by Professor Baglioni looked as strange and incredible as if it were not in accordance with his own original conception. True, there were ugly recollections connected with his first glimpses of the beautiful girl; he could not quite forget the bouquet that withered in her grasp, and the insect that perished amid the sunny air, by no ostensible agency save the fragrance of her breath. These incidents, however, dissolving in the pure light of her character, had no longer the efficacy of facts, but were acknowledged as mistaken fantasies, by whatever testimony of the senses they might appear to be substantiated. There is something truer and more real than what we can see with the eyes and touch with the finger. On such better evidence had Giovanni founded his confidence in Beatrice, though rather by the necessary force of her high attributes than by any deep and generous faith on his part. But now his spirit was incapable of sustaining itself at the height to which the early enthusiasm of passion had exalted it; he fell down, groveling among earthly doubts, and defiled therewith the pure whiteness of Beatrice’s image. Not that he gave her up; he did but distrust. He resolved to institute some decisive test that should satisfy him, once for all, whether there were those dreadful peculiarities in her physical nature which could not be supposed to exist without some corresponding monstrosity of soul. His eyes, gazing down afar, might have deceived him as to the lizard, the insect, and the flowers; but if he could witness, at the distance of a few paces, the sudden blight of one fresh and healthful flower in Beatrice’s hand, there would be room for no further question. With this idea he hastened to the florist’s and purchased a bouquet that was still gemmed with the morning dewdrops. It was now the customary hour of his daily interview with Beatrice. Before descending into the garden, Giovanni failed not to look at his figure in the mirror—a vanity to be expected in a beautiful young man, yet, as displaying itself at that troubled and feverish moment, the token of a certain shallowness of feeling and insincerity of character. He did

148 Nathaniel Hawthorne gaze, however, and said to himself that his features had never before possessed so rich a grace, nor his eyes such vivacity, nor his cheeks so warm a hue of superabundant life. “At least,” thought he, “her poison has not yet insinuated itself into my system. I am no flower to perish in her grasp.” With that thought he turned his eyes on the bouquet, which he had never once laid aside from his hand. A thrill of indefinable horror shot through his frame on perceiving that those dewy flowers were already beginning to droop; they wore the aspect of things that had been fresh and lovely yesterday. Giovanni grew white as marble, and stood motionless before the mirror, staring at his own reflection there as at the likeness of something frightful. He remembered Baglioni’s remark about the fragrance that seemed to pervade the chamber. It must have been the poison in his breath! Then he shuddered—shuddered at himself. Recovering from his stupor, he began to watch with curious eye a spider that was busily at work hanging its web from the antique cornice of the apartment, crossing and recrossing the artful system of interwoven lines— as vigorous and active a spider as ever dangled from an old ceiling. Giovanni bent toward the insect, and emitted a deep, long breath. The spider suddenly ceased its toil; the web vibrated with a tremor originating in the body of the small artisan. Again Giovanni sent forth a breath, deeper, longer, and imbued with a venomous feeling out of his heart: he knew not whether he were wicked, or only desperate. The spider made a convulsive gripe with his limbs and hung dead across the window. “Accursed! accursed!” muttered Giovanni, addressing himself. “Hast thou grown so poisonous that this deadly insect perishes by thy breath?” At that moment a rich, sweet voice came floating up from the garden. “Giovanni! Giovanni! It is past the hour! Why tarriest thou? Come down!” “Yes,” muttered Giovanni again. “She is the only being whom my breath may not slay! Would that it might!” He rushed down, and in an instant was standing before the bright and loving eyes of Beatrice. A moment ago his wrath and despair had been so fierce that he could have desired nothing so much as to wither her by a glance; but with her actual presence there came influences which had too real an existence to be at once shaken off: recollections of the delicate and benign power of her feminine nature, which had so often enveloped him in a religious calm; recollections of many a holy and passionate outgush of her heart, when the pure fountain had been unsealed from its depths and made visible in its transparency to his mental

149RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R eye; recollections which, had Giovanni known how to estimate them, would have assured him that all this ugly mystery was but an earthly illusion, and that, whatever mist of evil might seem to have gathered over her, the real Beatrice was a heavenly angel. Incapable as he was of such high faith, still her presence had not utterly lost its magic. Giovanni’s rage was quelled into an aspect of sullen insensibility. Beatrice, with a quick spiritual sense, immediately felt that there was a gulf of blackness between them which neither he nor she could pass. They walked on together, sad and silent, and came thus to the marble fountain and to its pool of water on the ground, in the midst of which grew the shrub that bore gemlike blossoms. Giovanni was affrighted at the eager enjoyment—the appetite, as it were—with which he found himself inhaling the fragrance of the flowers. “Beatrice,” asked he, abruptly, “whence came this shrub?” “My father created it,” answered she, with simplicity. “Created it! created it!” repeated Giovanni. “What mean you, Beatrice?” “He is a man fearfully acquainted with the secrets of Nature,” replied Beatrice; “and, at the hour when I first drew breath, this plant sprang from the soil, the offspring of his science, of his intellect, while I was but his earthly child. Approach it not!” continued she, observing with terror that Giovanni was drawing nearer to the shrub. “It has qualities that you little dream of. But I, dearest Giovanni, I grew up and blossomed with the plant and was nourished with its breath. It was my sister, and I loved it with a human affection; for, alas!—hast thou not suspected it?— there was an awful doom.” Here Giovanni frowned so darkly upon her that Beatrice paused and trembled. But her faith in his tenderness reassured her, and made her blush that she had doubted for an instant. “There was an awful doom,” she continued, “the effect of my father’s fatal love of science, which estranged me from all society of my kind. Until Heaven sent thee, dearest Giovanni, oh, how lonely was thy poor Beatrice!” “Was it a hard doom?” asked Giovanni, fixing his eyes upon her. “Only of late have I known how hard it was,” answered she, tenderly. “Oh, yes; but my heart was torpid, and therefore quiet.” Giovanni’s rage broke forth from his sullen gloom like a lightning flash out of a dark cloud. “Accursed one!” cried he, with venomous scorn and anger. “And, finding thy solitude wearisome, thou hast severed me likewise from all the warmth of life and enticed me into thy region of unspeakable horror!” “Giovanni!” exclaimed Beatrice, turning her large bright eyes upon his

150 Nathaniel Hawthorne face. The force of his words had not found its way into her mind; she was merely thunderstruck. “Yes, poisonous thing!” repeated Giovanni, beside himself with passion. “Thou hast done it! Thou hast blasted me! Thou hast filled my veins with poison! Thou hast made me as hateful, as ugly, as loathsome and deadly a creature as thyself—a world’s wonder of hideous monstrosity! Now, if our breath be happily as fatal to ourselves as to all others, let us join our lips in one kiss of unutterable hatred, and so die!” “What has befallen me?” murmured Beatrice, with a low moan out of her heart. “Holy Virgin, pity me, a poor heart broken child!” “Thou—dost thou pray?” cried Giovanni, still with the same fiendish scorn. “Thy very prayers, as they come from thy lips, taint the atmosphere with death. Yes, yes; let us pray! Let us to church and dip our fingers in the holy water at the portal! They that come after us will perish as by a pestilence! Let us sign crosses in the air! It will be scattering curses abroad in the likeness of holy symbols!” “Giovanni,” said Beatrice, calmly, for her grief was beyond passion, “why dost thou join thyself with me thus in those terrible words? I, it is true, am the horrible thing thou namest me. But thou—what hast thou to do, save with one other shudder of my hideous misery to go forth out of the garden and mingle with thy race, and forget that there ever crawled on earth such a monster as poor Beatrice?” “Dost thou pretend ignorance?” asked Giovanni, scowling upon her. “Behold! this power have I gained from the pure daughter of Rappaccini.” There was a swarm of summer insects flitting through the air in search of the food promised by the flower odors of the fatal garden. They circled round Giovanni’s head, and were evidently attracted toward him by the same influence which had drawn them for an instant within the sphere of several of the shrubs. He sent forth a breath among them, and smiled bitterly at Beatrice as at least a score of the insects fell dead upon the ground. “I see it! I see it!” shrieked Beatrice. “It is my father’s fatal science! No, no, Giovanni; it was not I! Never! never! I dreamed only to love thee and be with thee a little time, and so to let thee pass away, leaving but thine image in mine heart; for, Giovanni, believe it, though my body be nourished with poison, my spirit is God’s creature, and craves love as its daily food. But my father, he has united us in this fearful sympathy. Yes; spurn me, tread upon me, kill me! Oh, what is death after such words as thine? But it was not I. Not for a world of bliss would I have done it.” Giovanni’s passion had exhausted itself in its outburst from his lips.

151RAP PACCI N I’S DAUG HTE R There now came across him a sense, mournful, and not without tenderness, of the intimate and peculiar relationship between Beatrice and himself. They stood, as it were, in an utter solitude, which would be made none the less solitary by the densest throng of human life. Ought not, then, the desert of humanity around them to press this insulated pair closer together? If they should be cruel to one another, who was there to be kind to them? Besides, thought Giovanni, might there not still be a hope of his returning within the limits of ordinary nature, and leading Beatrice, the redeemed Beatrice, by the hand? O, weak, and selfish, and unworthy spirit, that could dream of an earthly union and earthly happiness as possible, after such deep love had been so bitterly wronged as was Beatrice’s love by Giovanni’s blighting words! No, no; there could be no such hope. She must pass heavily, with that broken heart, across the borders of Time—she must bathe her hurts in some fount of paradise, and forget her grief in the light of immortality, and there be well. But Giovanni did not know it. “Dear Beatrice,” said he, approaching her, while she shrank away as always at his approach, but now with a different impulse, “dearest Beatrice, our fate is not yet so desperate. Behold! there is a medicine, potent, as a wise physician has assured me, and almost divine in its efficacy. It is composed of ingredients the most opposite to those by which thy awful father has brought this calamity upon thee and me. It is distilled of blessed herbs. Shall we not quaff it together, and thus be purified from evil?” “Give it me!” said Beatrice, extending her hand to receive the little silver vial which Giovanni took from his bosom. She added, with a peculiar emphasis, “I will drink; but do thou await the result.” She put Baglioni’s antidote to her lips; and, at the same moment, the figure of Rappaccini emerged from the portal and came slowly towards the marble fountain. As he drew near, the pale man of science seemed to gaze with a triumphant expression at the beautiful youth and maiden, as might an artist who should spend his life in achieving a picture or a group of statuary and finally be satisfied with his success. He paused; his bent form grew erect with conscious power; he spread out his hands over them in the attitude of a father imploring a blessing upon his children; but those were the same hands that had thrown poison into the stream of their lives. Giovanni trembled. Beatrice shuddered nervously, and pressed her hand upon her heart. “My daughter,” said Rappaccini, “thou art no longer lonely in the world. Pluck one of those precious gems from thy sister shrub and bid thy bridegroom wear it in his bosom. It will not harm him now. My science

152 Nathaniel Hawthorne and the sympathy between thee and him have so wrought within his system that he now stands apart from common men, as thou dost, daughter of my pride and triumph, from ordinary women. Pass on, then, through the world, most dear to one another and dreadful to all besides!” “My father,” said Beatrice, feebly,—and still as she spoke she kept her hand upon her heart—“wherefore didst thou inflict this miserable doom upon thy child?” “Miserable!” exclaimed Rappaccini. “What mean you, foolish girl? Dost thou deem it misery to be endowed with marvellous gifts against which no power nor strength could avail an enemy—misery, to be able to quell the mightiest with a breath—misery, to be as terrible as thou art beautiful? Wouldst thou, then, have preferred the condition of a weak woman, exposed to all evil and capable of none?” “I would fain have been loved, not feared,” murmured Beatrice, sinking down upon the ground. “But now it matters not. I am going, father, where the evil which thou hast striven to mingle with my being will pass away like a dream—like the fragrance of these poisonous flowers, which will no longer taint my breath among the flowers of Eden. Farewell, Giovanni! Thy words of hatred are like lead within my heart; but they, too, will fall away as I ascend. Oh, was there not, from the first, more poison in thy nature than in mine?” To Beatrice—so radically had her earthly part been wrought upon by Rappaccini’s skill—as poison had been life, so the powerful antidote was death; and thus the poor victim of man’s ingenuity and of thwarted nature, and of the fatality that attends all such efforts of perverted wisdom, perished there, at the feet of her father and Giovanni. Just at that moment Professor Pietro Baglioni looked forth from the window, and called loudly, in a tone of triumph mixed with horror, to the thunder- stricken man of science— “Rappaccini! Rappaccini! and is this the upshot of your experiment!” “Rappaccini’s Daughter” is from a collection of Hawthorne’s stories entitled MOSSE S FROM AN OLD MANSE.

153 George Eliot 1819–1880 George Eliot (the pen name of Mary Ann or Marian Evans) wasborn at Chilvers Coton, Warwickshire, England, November 22, 1819. Limited by an extremely narrow religious upbringing, she managed to school herself in German, Italian, music and literature. When she was twenty-two she made new philosophic friends in Coventry and became a rationalist for the rest of her life. In 1844 she began to translate Strauss’s The Life of Jesus. After her father died in 1849, she lived abroad for a while. From 1851 to 1853 she served as assistant editor of the Westminster Review. This led to an acquaintance with Herbert Spencer, Carlyle, Francis Newman, and others. In 1851 she met the philosopher George Henry Lewes, who was separated from his wife. He and the future novelist traveled together on the continent. Later they settled in London, in a “singularly happy” union both regarded as a marriage. Their receptions were select and famous. She published Scenes of Clerical Life in 1858. With Adam Bede, in the next year, the tremendous reputation of “George Eliot” was made. She brought out The Mill on the Floss in 1860 and Silas Marner in 1861. That year she spent a month in Florence preparing to write Romola. She was offered £10,000 for the copyright and Cornhill Magazine paid £7,000 for its serialization. Between 1866 and 1879, she published Felix Holt, The Spanish Gypsy (a blank-verse play), Middlemarch, Daniel Deronda (a strong argument against anti-Semitism) and a book of essays, Impressions of Theophrastus Such. Her work grew more and more intellectual. Like Tolstoy’s later books, it was increasingly weighted with moral pleading. In 1876 Lewes and George Eliot moved to Witley, near Godalm-

154 George Eliot ing. Lewes died on November 28, 1878. “Here I and sorrow sit,” she wrote in her journal. John W. Cross, a friend since 1869, helped to settle her affairs. In 1880—he forty and she sixty-one—she married him. That same year, on December 22, she died in London. The Lifted Veil is a fascinating story on several counts. About the middle of the nineteenth century, psychic phenomena of all kinds were so popular that they became half-serious parlor games. The spiritualist Fox sisters bewitched New York. A medium from Connecticut, D. D. Home, excited the foreign colony in Florence, where George Eliot studied Savonarola and his times in 1861. Ruskin asked Home to help him get in touch with the sixteenth- century painter Paolo Veronese. Against this background, Latimer, the narrator in The Lifted Veil, might have been a fashionable hero of his time. He is both telepathic and clairvoyant—that is, he can receive and read other people’s streams of consciousness, and he has accurate visions of future events and scenes not otherwise known to him. Both talents, verified or not, are included under the current term ESP or psi cognition. Given these talents, plus a sensibility so acute that he can hardly bear the ordinary stresses of life, and Latimer becomes one of the most exasperating characters in English fiction. What does he do? Nothing—or as nearly nothing as any man can and still remain alive. No character in a Russian novel is so helplessly inert. He has a taste for poetry, perhaps some gift. How can he know unless he tries? He does not try. His qualifications as a mind reader and clairvoyant might have made him the most sought-after man in London. Instead, they remain his secret terror. He makes no use of them. His one positive act is his marriage to Bertha. On this the story revolves. Cautiously enough, the author makes Latimer’s psychic powers stop short of penetrating his wife’s thoughts. There he draws a blank, or shows only the most ordinary awareness. We grant the Notes from the artist: “. . . the profile of George Eliot is superimposed over a facsimile of the original manuscript of her novel Adam Bede.”

156 George Eliot ironic rightness of this. He is not the first or last husband whose insight fails to include his wife. But what if the author had not done this? What if she had allowed Latimer to see into his wife’s mind? And what if their hostility to each other had become a duel—his psychic powers against her feminine penetration? But we see at once that Latimer is not the man for it. If we allow for his limitations, as the author intended we should, he becomes the center of a solidly written story. His psychic gift works as a technical device. It allows the author to foretell each crisis in his life, even the last, but with one exception: Bertha’s plot against him. This is revealed, almost by chance, in the doctor’s experiment. Only then does Latimer—and the reader—understand the depth of her hatred.

157 The Lifted Veil CHAPTER I he time of my end approaches. I have lately been subject to attacks of angina pectoris; and in the ordinary course of things, my physician tells me, I may fairly hope that my life will not be protracted many months. Unless, then, I am cursed with an exceptional physical constitution, as I am cursed with an exceptional mental character, I shall not much longer groan under the wearisome burden of this earthly existence. If it were to be otherwise—if I were to live on to the age most men desire and provide for—I should for once have known whether the miseries of delusive expectation can outweigh the miseries of true prevision. For I foresee when I shall die, and everything that will happen in my last moments. Just a month from this day, on September 20, 1850, I shall be sitting in this chair, in this study, at ten o’clock at night, longing to die, weary of incessant insight and foresight, without delusions and without hope. Just as I am watching a tongue of blue flame rising in the fire, and my lamp is burning low, the horrible contraction will begin at my chest. I shall only have time to reach the bell, and pull it violently, before the sense of suffocation will come. No one will answer my bell. I know why. My two servants are lovers, and will have quarrelled. My housekeeper will have rushed out of the house in a fury, two hours before, hoping that Perry will believe she has gone to drown herself. Perry is alarmed at last, and is gone out after her. The little scullery-maid is asleep on a bench: she never answers the bell; it does not wake her. The sense of suffocation increases: my lamp goes out with a horrible stench: I make a great effort, and snatch at the bell again. I long for life, and there is no help. I thirsted for the unknown: the thirst is gone. O God, let me stay with

158 George Eliot the known, and be weary of it: I am content. Agony of pain and suffocation—and all the while the earth, the fields, the pebbly brook at the bottom of the rookery, the fresh scent after the rain, the light of the morning through my chamber-window, the warmth of the hearth after the frosty air—will darkness close over them forever? Darkness—darkness—no pain—nothing but darkness: but I am passing on and on through the darkness: my thought stays in the darkness, but always with a sense of moving onward. . . . Before that time comes, I wish to use my last hours of ease and strength in telling the strange story of my experience. I have never fully unbosomed myself to any human being; I have never been encouraged to trust much in the sympathy of my fellow-men. But we have all a chance of meeting with some pity, some tenderness, some charity, when we are dead: it is the living only who cannot be forgiven—the living only from whom men’s indulgence and reverence are held off, like the rain by the hard east wind. While the heart beats, bruise it—it is your only opportunity; while the eye can still turn towards you with moist, timid entreaty, freeze it with an icy unanswering gaze; while the ear, that delicate messenger to the inmost sanctuary of the soul, can still take in the tones of kindness, put it off with hard civility, or sneering compliment, or envious affectation of indifference; while the creative brain can still throb with the sense of injustice, with the yearning for brotherly recognition—make haste—oppress it with your ill-considered judgements, your trivial comparisons, your careless misrepresentations. The heart will by and by be still—ubi saeva indignatio ulterius cor lacerare nequit [Where fierce indignation can no longer tear his heart] 1; the eye will cease to entreat; the ear will be deaf; the brain will have ceased from all wants as well as from all work. Then your charitable speeches may find vent; then you may remember and pity the toil and the struggle and the failure; then you may give due honour to the work achieved; then you may find extenuation for errors, and may consent to bury them. That is a trivial schoolboy text; why do I dwell on it? It has little reference to me, for I shall leave no works behind me for men to honour. I have no near relatives who will make up, by weeping over my grave, for the wounds they inflicted on me when I was among them. It is only the story of my life that will perhaps win a little more sympathy from strangers when I am dead, than I ever believed it would obtain from my friends while I was living. 1. Jonathan Swift’s epitaph, written by himself.

159TH E LI F TE D VE I L My childhood perhaps seems happier to me than it really was, by contrast with all the after-years. For then the curtain of the future was as impenetrable to me as to other children: I had all their delight in the present hour, their sweet indefinite hopes for the morrow; and I had a tender mother: even now, after the dreary lapse of long years, a slight trace of sensation accompanies the remembrance of her caress as she held me on her knee—her arms round my little body, her cheek pressed on mine. I had a complaint of the eyes that made me blind for a little while, and she kept me on her knee from morning till night. That unequalled love soon vanished out of my life, and even to my childish consciousness it was as if that life had become more chill. I rode my little white pony with the groom by my side as before, but there were no loving eyes looking at me as I mounted, no glad arms opened to me when I came back. Perhaps I missed my mother’s love more than most children of seven or eight would have done, to whom the other pleasures of life remained as before; for I was certainly a very sensitive child. I remember still the mingled trepidation and delicious excitement with which I was affected by the tramping of the horses on the pavement in the echoing stables, by the loud resonance of the grooms’ voices, by the booming bark of the dogs as my father’s carriage thundered under the archway of the courtyard, by the din of the gong as it gave notice of luncheon and dinner. The measured tramp of soldiery which I sometimes heard—for my father’s house lay near a county town where there were large barracks—made me sob and tremble; and yet when they were gone past, I longed for them to come back again. I fancy my father thought me an odd child, and had little fondness for me; though he was very careful in fulfilling what he regarded as a parent’s duties. But he was already past the middle of life, and I was not his only son. My mother had been his second wife, and he was five-and- forty when he married her. He was a firm, unbending, intensely orderly man, in root and stem a banker, but with a flourishing graft of the active landholder, aspiring to county influence: one of those people who are always like themselves from day to day, who are uninfluenced by the weather, and neither know melancholy nor high spirits. I held him in great awe, and appeared more timid and sensitive in his presence than at other times; a circumstance which, perhaps, helped to confirm him in the intention to educate me on a different plan from the prescriptive one with which he had complied in the case of my elder brother, already a tall youth at Eton. My brother was to be his representative and successor; he must go to Eton and Oxford, for the sake of making connections, of

160 George Eliot course: my father was not a man to underrate the bearing of Latin satirists or Greek dramatists on the attainment of an aristocratic position. But, intrinsically, he had slight esteem for “those dead but sceptred spirits”; having qualified himself for forming an independent opinion by reading Potter’s Aeschylus, and dipping into Francis’s Horace. To this negative view he added a positive one, derived from a recent connection with mining speculations; namely, that a scientific education was the really useful training for a younger son. Moreover, it was clear that a shy, sensitive boy like me was not fit to encounter the rough experience of a public school. Mr. Letherall had said so very decidedly. Mr. Letherall was a large man in spectacles, who one day took my small head between his large hands, and pressed it here and there in an exploratory, suspicious manner—then placed each of his great thumbs on my temples, and pushed me a little way from him, and stared at me with glittering spectacles. The contemplation appeared to displease him, for he frowned sternly, and said to my father, drawing his thumbs across my eyebrows— “The deficiency is there, sir—there; and here,” he added, touching the upper sides of my head, “here is the excess. That must be brought out, sir, and this must be laid to sleep.” I was in a state of tremor, partly at the vague idea that I was the object of reprobation, partly in the agitation of my first hatred—hatred of this big, spectacled man, who pulled my head about as if he wanted to buy and cheapen it. I am not aware how much Mr. Letherall had to do with the system afterwards adopted towards me, but it was presently clear that private tutors, natural history, science, and the modern languages, were the appliances by which the defects of my organization were to be remedied. I was very stupid about machines, so I was to be greatly occupied with them; I had no memory for classification, so it was particularly necessary that I should study systematic zoology and botany; I was hungry for human deeds and humane motions, so I was to be plentifully crammed with the mechanical powers, the elementary bodies, and the phenomena of electricity and magnetism. A better-constituted boy would certainly have profited under my intelligent tutors, with their scientific apparatus; and would, doubtless, have found the phenomena of electricity and magnetism as fascinating as I was, every Thursday, assured they were. As it was, I could have paired off, for ignorance of whatever was taught me, with the worst Latin scholar that was ever turned out of a classical academy. I read Plutarch, and Shakespeare, and Don Quixote by the sly, and supplied myself in that way with wandering thoughts, while my

161TH E LI F TE D VE I L tutor was assuring me that “an improved man, as distinguished from an ignorant one, was a man who knew the reason why water ran downhill.” I had no desire to be this improved man; I was glad of the running water; I could watch it and listen to it gurgling among the pebbles, and bathing the bright green water-plants, by the hour together. I did not want to know why it ran; I had perfect confidence that there were good reasons for what was so very beautiful. There is no need to dwell on this part of my life. I have said enough to indicate that my nature was of the sensitive, unpractical order, and that it grew up in an uncongenial medium, which could never foster it into happy, healthy development. When I was sixteen I was sent to Geneva to complete my course of education; and the change was a very happy one to me, for the first sight of the Alps, with the setting sun on them, as we descended the Jura, seemed to me like an entrance into heaven; and the three years of my life there were spent in a perpetual sense of exaltation, as if from a draught of delicious wine, at the presence of Nature in all her awful loveliness. You will think, perhaps, that I must have been a poet, from this early sensibility to Nature. But my lot was not so happy as that. A poet pours forth his song and believes in the listening ear and answering soul, to which his song will be floated sooner or later. But the poet’s sensibility without his voice—the poet’s sensibility that finds no vent but in silent tears on the sunny bank, when the noonday light sparkles on the water, or in an inward shudder at the sound of harsh human tones, the sight of a cold human eye—this dumb passion brings with it a fatal solitude of soul in the society of one’s fellow-men. My least solitary moments were those in which I pushed off in my boat, at evening, towards the centre of the lake; it seemed to me that the sky, and the glowing mountain tops, and the wide blue water, surrounded me with a cherishing love such as no human face had shed on me since my mother’s love had vanished out of my life. I used to do as Jean Jacques did—lie down in my boat and let it glide where it would, while I looked up at the departing glow leaving one mountain top after the other, as if the prophet’s chariot of fire were passing over them on its way to the home of light. Then, when the white summits were all sad and corpse-like, I had to push homeward, for I was under careful surveillance, and was allowed no late wanderings. This disposition of mine was not favourable to the formation of intimate friendships among the numerous youths of my own age who are always to be found studying at Geneva. Yet I made one such friendship; and, singularly enough, it was with a youth whose intellectual tendencies were the very reverse of my own. I shall call him

162 George Eliot Charles Meunier; his real surname—an English one, for he was of English extraction—having since become celebrated. He was an orphan, who lived on a miserable pittance while he pursued the medical studies for which he had a special genius. Strange! that with my vague mind, susceptible and unobservant, hating inquiry and given up to contemplation, I should have been drawn towards a youth whose strongest passion was science. But the bond was not an intellectual one; it came from a source that can happily blend the stupid with the brilliant, the dreamy with the practical: it came from community of feeling. Charles was poor and ugly, derided by Genevese gamins, and not acceptable in drawing-rooms. I saw that he was isolated, as I was, though from a different cause, and, stimulated by a sympathetic resentment, I made timid advances towards him. It is enough to say that there sprang up as much comradeship between us as our different habits would allow; and in Charles’s rare holidays we went up the Salève together, or took the boat to Vevey, while I listened dreamily to the monologues in which he unfolded his bold conceptions of future experiment and discovery. I mingled them confusedly in my thought with glimpses of blue water and delicate floating cloud, with the notes of birds and the distant glitter of the glacier. He knew quite well that my mind was half absent, yet he liked to talk to me in this way; for don’t we talk of our hopes and our projects even to dogs and birds, when they love us? I have mentioned this one friendship because of its connection with a strange and terrible scene which I shall have to narrate in my subsequent life. This happier life at Geneva was put an end to by a severe illness, which is partly a blank to me, partly a time of dimly-remembered suffering, with the presence of my father by my bed from time to time. Then came the languid monotony of convalescence, the days gradually breaking into variety and distinctness as my strength enabled me to take longer and longer drives. On one of these more vividly remembered days, my father said to me, as he sat beside my sofa— “When you are quite well enough to travel, Latimer, I shall take you home with me. The journey will amuse you and do you good, for I shall go through the Tirol and Austria, and you will see many new places. Our neighbours, the Filmores, are come; Alfred will join us at Basel, and we shall all go together to Vienna, and back by Prague. . . .” My father was called away before he had finished his sentence, and he left my mind resting on the word Prague, with a strange sense that a new and wondrous scene was breaking upon me: a city under the broad sunshine, that seemed to me as if it were the summer sunshine of a long-

163TH E LI F TE D VE I L past century arrested in its course—unrefreshed for ages by dews of night, or the rushing rain-cloud; scorching the dusty, weary, time-eaten grandeur of a people doomed to live on in the stale repetition of memories, like deposed and superannuated kings in their regal gold-inwoven tatters. The city looked so thirsty that the broad river seemed to me a sheet of metal; and the blaekened statues, as I passed under their blank gaze, along the unending bridge, with their ancient garments and their saintly crowns, seemed to me the real inhabitants and owners of this place, while the busy, trivial men and women, hurrying to and fro, were a swarm of ephemeral visitants infesting it for a day. It is such grim, stony beings as these, I thought, who are the fathers of ancient faded children, in those tanned time-fretted dwellings that crowd the steep before me; who pay their court in the worn and crumbling pomp of the palace which stretches its monotonous length on the height; who worship wearily in the stifling air of the churches, urged by no fear or hope, but compelled by their doom to be ever old and undying, to live on in the rigidity of habit, as they live on in perpetual midday, without the repose of night or the new birth of morning. A stunning clang of metal suddenly thrilled through me, and I became conscious of the objects in my room again: one of the fire-irons had fallen as Pierre opened the door to bring me my draught. My heart was palpitating violently, and I begged Pierre to leave my draught beside me; I would take it presently. As soon as I was alone again, I began to ask myself whether I had been sleeping. Was this a dream—this wonderfully distinct vision—minute in its distinctness down to a patch of rainbow light on the pavement, transmitted through a coloured lamp in the shape of a star—of a strange city, quite unfamiliar to my imagination? I had seen no picture of Prague: it lay in my mind as a mere name, with vaguely-remembered historical associations—ill-defined memories of imperial grandeur and religious wars. Nothing of this sort had ever occurred in my dreaming experience before, for I had often been humiliated because my dreams were only saved from being utterly disjointed and commonplace by the frequent terrors of nightmare. But I could not believe that I had been asleep, for I remembered distinctly the gradual breaking in of the vision upon me, like the new images in a dissolving view, or the growing distinctness of the landscape as the sun lifts up the veil of the morning mist. And while I was conscious of this incipient vision, I was also conscious that Pierre came to tell my father Mr. Filmore was waiting for him, and that my

164 George Eliot father hurried out of the room. No, it was not a dream; was it—the thought was full of tremulous exultation—was it the poet’s nature in me, hitherto only a troubled yearning sensibility, now manifesting itself suddenly as spontaneous creation? Surely it was in this way that Homer saw the plain of Troy, that Dante saw the abodes of the departed, that Milton saw the earthward flight of the Tempter. Was it that my illness had wrought some happy change in my organization—given a firmer tension to my nerves—carried off some dull obstruction? I had often read of such effects—in works of fiction at least. Nay; in genuine biographies I had read of the subtilizing or exalting influence of some diseases on the mental powers. Did not Novalis feel his inspiration intensified under the progress of consumption? When my mind had dwelt for some time on this blissful idea, it seemed to me that I might perhaps test it by an exertion of my will. The vision had begun when my father was speaking of our going to Prague. I did not for a moment believe it was really a representation of that city; I believed—I hoped it was a picture that my newly liberated genius had painted in fiery haste, with the colours snatched from lazy memory. Suppose I were to fix my mind on some other place—Venice, for example, which was far more familiar to my imagination than Prague: perhaps the same sort of result would follow. I concentrated my thoughts on Venice; I stimulated my imagination with poetic memories, and strove to feel myself present in Venice, as I had felt myself present in Prague. But in vain. I was only colouring the Canaletto engravings that hung in my old bedroom at home; the picture was a shifting one, my mind wandering uncertainly in search of more vivid images; I could see no accident of form or shadow without conscious labour after the necessary conditions. It was all prosaic effort, not rapt passivity, such as I had experienced half an hour before. I was discouraged; but I remembered that inspiration was fitful. For several days I was in a state of excited expectation, watching for a recurrence of my new gift. I sent my thoughts ranging over my world of knowledge, in the hope that they would find some object which would send a reawakening vibration through my slumbering genius. But no; my world remained as dim as ever, and that flash of strange light refused to come again, though I watched for it with palpitating eagerness. My father accompanied me every day in a drive, and a gradually lengthening walk as my powers of walking increased; and one evening he had agreed to come and fetch me at twelve the next day, that we might go together to select a musical box, and other purchases rigorously

165TH E LI F TE D VE I L demanded of a rich Englishman visiting Geneva. He was one of the most punctual of men and bankers, and I was always nervously anxious to be quite ready for him at the appointed time. But, to my surprise, at a quarter past twelve he had not appeared. I felt all the impatience of a convalescent who has nothing particular to do, and who has just taken a tonic in the prospect of immediate exercise that would carry off the stimulus. Unable to sit still and reserve my strength, I walked up and down the room, looking out on the current of the Rhône, just where it leaves the dark-blue lake; but thinking all the while of the possible causes that could detain my father. Suddenly I was conscious that my father was in the room, but not alone: there were two persons with him. Strange! I had heard no footstep, I had not seen the door open; but I saw my father, and at his right hand our neighbour Mrs. Filmore, whom I remembered very well, though I had not seen her for five years. She was a commonplace middle-aged woman, in silk and cashmere; but the lady on the left of my father was not more than twenty, a tall, slim, willowy figure, with luxuriant blond hair, arranged in cunning braids and folds that looked almost too massive for the slight figure and the small-featured, thin-lipped face they crowned. But the face had not a girlish expression: the features were sharp, the pale grey eyes at once acute, restless, and sarcastic. They were fixed on me in half-smiling curiosity, and I felt a painful sensation as if a sharp wind were cutting me. The pale-green dress, and the green leaves that seemed to form a border about her pale blond hair, made me think of a Water-Nixie—for my mind was full of German lyrics, and this pale, fatal-eyed woman, with the green weeds, looked like a birth from some cold sedgy stream, the daughter of an aged river. “Well Latimer, you thought me long,” my father said. . . . But while the last word was in my ears, the whole group vanished, and there was nothing between me and the Chinese painted folding-screen that stood before the door. I was cold and trembling; I could only totter forward and throw myself on the sofa. This strange new power had manifested itself again. . . . But was it a power? Might it not rather be a disease—a sort of intermittent delirium, concentrating my energy of brain into moments of unhealthy activity, and leaving my saner hours all the more barren? I felt a dizzy sense of unreality in what my eye rested on; I grasped the bell convulsively, like one trying to free himself from nightmare, and rang it twice. Pierre came with a look of alarm in his face. “Monsieur ne se trouve pas bien? ” he said anxiously.

166 George Eliot “I’m tired of waiting, Pierre,” I said, as distinctly and emphatically as I could, like a man determined to be sober in spite of wine; “I’m afraid something has happened to my father—he’s usually so punctual. Run to the Hôtel des Bergues and see if he is there.” Pierre left the room at once, with a soothing “Bien, Monsieur”; and I felt the better for this scene of simple, waking prose. Seeking to calm myself still further, I went into my bedroom, adjoining the salon, and opened a case of eau-de-Cologne; took out a bottle; went through the process of taking out the cork very neatly, and then rubbed the reviving spirit over my hands and forehead, and under my nostrils, drawing a new delight from the scent because I had procured it by slow details of labour, and by no strange sudden madness. Already I had begun to taste something of the horror that belongs to the lot of a human being whose nature is not adjusted to simple human conditions. Still enjoying the scent, I returned to the salon, but it was not unoccupied, as it had been before I left it. In front of the Chinese folding- screen there was my father, with Mrs. Filmore on his right hand, and on his left—the slim, blond-haired girl, with the keen face and the keen eyes fixed on me in half-smiling curiosity. “Well, Latimer, you thought me long,” my father said. . . . I heard no more, felt no more, till I became conscious that I was lying with my head low on the sofa, Pierre, and my father by my side. As soon as I was thoroughly revived, my father left the room, and presently returned, saying— “I’ve been to tell the ladies how you are, Latimer. They were waiting in the next room. We shall put off our shopping expedition to-day.” Presently he said, “That young lady is Bertha Grant, Mrs. Filmore’s orphan niece. Filmore has adopted her, and she lives with them, so you will have her for a neighbour when we go home—perhaps for a near relation; for there is a tenderness between her and Alfred, I suspect, and I should be gratified by the match, since Filmore means to provide for her in every way as if she were his daughter. It had not occurred to me that you knew nothing about her living with the Filmores.” He made no further allusion to the fact of my having fainted at the moment of seeing her, and I would not for the world have told him the reason: I shrank from the idea of disclosing to any one what might be regarded as a pitiable peculiarity, most of all from betraying it to my father, who would have suspected my sanity ever after. I do not mean to dwell with particularity on the details of my experi-

167TH E LI F TE D VE I L ence. I have described these two cases at length, because they had definite, clearly traceable results in my afterlot. Shortly after this last occurrence—I think the very next day—I began to be aware of a phase in my abnormal sensibility, to which, from the languid and slight nature of my intercourse with others since my illness, I had not been alive before. This was the obtrusion on my mind of the mental process going forward in first one person, and then another, with whom I happened to be in contact: the vagrant, frivolous ideas and emotions of some uninteresting acquaintance—Mrs. Filmore, for example—would force themselves on my consciousness like an importunate, ill-played musical instrument, or the loud activity of an imprisoned insect. But this unpleasant sensibility was fitful, and left me moments of rest, when the souls of my companions were once more shut out from me, and I felt a relief such as silence brings to wearied nerves. I might have believed this importunate insight to be merely a diseased activity of the imagination, but that my prevision of incalculable words and actions proved it to have a fixed relation to the mental process in other minds. But this superadded consciousness, wearying and annoying enough when it urged on me the trivial experience of indifferent people, became an intense pain and grief when it seemed to be opening to me the souls of those who were in a close relation to me—when the rational talk, the graceful attentions, the wittily-turned phrases, and the kindly deeds, which used to make the web of their characters, were seen as if thrust asunder by a microscopic vision, that showed all the intermediate frivolities, all the suppressed egoism, all the struggling chaos of puerilities, meanness, vague capricious memories, and indolent make-shift thoughts, from which human words and deeds emerge like leaflets covering a fermenting heap. At Basel we were joined by my brother Alfred, now a handsome, self- confident man of six-and-twenty—a thorough contrast to my fragile, nervous, ineffectual self. I believe I was held to have a sort of half- womanish, half-ghostly beauty; for the portrait-painters, who are thick as weeds at Geneva, had often asked me to sit to them, and I had been the model of a dying minstrel in a fancy picture. But I thoroughly disliked my own physique and nothing but the belief that it was a condition of poetic genius would have reconciled me to it. That brief hope was quite fled, and I saw in my face now nothing but the stamp of a morbid organization, framed for passive suffering—too feeble for the sublime resistance of poetic production. Alfred, from whom I had been almost con-

168 George Eliot stantly separated, and who, in his present stage of character and appearance, came before me as a perfect stranger, was bent on being extremely friendly and brotherlike to me. He had the superficial kindness of a good-humoured, self-satisfied nature, that fears no rivalry, and has encountered no contrarieties. I am not sure that my disposition was good enough for me to have been quite free from envy towards him, even if our desires had not clashed, and if I had been in the healthy human condition which admits of generous confidence and charitable construction. There must always have been an antipathy between our natures. As it was, he became in a few weeks an object of intense hatred to me; and when he entered the room, still more when he spoke, it was as if a sensation of grating metal had set my teeth on edge. My diseased consciousness was more intensely and continually occupied with his thoughts and emotions, than with those of any other person who came in my way. I was perpetually exasperated with the petty promptings of his conceit and his love of patronage, with his self-complacent belief in Bertha Grant’s passion for him, with his half-pitying contempt for me— seen not in the ordinary indications of intonation and phrase and slight action, which an acute and suspicious mind is on the watch for, but in all their naked skinless complication. For we were rivals, and our desires clashed, though he was not aware of it. I have said nothing yet of the effect Bertha Grant produced in me on a nearer acquaintance. That effect was chiefly determined by the fact that she made the only exception, among all the human beings about me, to my unhappy gift of insight. About Bertha I was always in a state of uncertainty: I could watch the expression of her face, and speculate on its meaning; I could ask for her opinion with the real interest of ignorance; I could listen for her words and watch for her smile with hope and fear: she had for me the fascination of an unravelled destiny. I say it was this fact that chiefly determined the strong effect she produced on me: for, in the abstract, no womanly character could seem to have less affinity for that of a shrinking, romantic, passionate youth than Bertha’s. She was keen, sarcastic, unimaginative, prematurely cynical, remaining critical and unmoved in the most impressive scenes, inclined to dissect all my favourite poems, and especially contemptuous towards the German lyrics which were my pet literature at that time. To this moment I am unable to define my feeling towards her: it was not ordinary boyish admiration, for she was the very opposite, even to the colour of her hair, of the ideal woman who still remained to me the type of loveliness; and she was without that enthusiasm for the great and good, which, even at

169TH E LI F TE D VE I L the moment of her strongest dominion over me, I should have declared to be the highest element of character. But there is no tyranny more complete than that which a self-centred negative nature exercises over a morbidly sensitive nature perpetually craving sympathy and support. The most independent people feel the effect of a man’s silence in heightening their value for his opinion—feel an additional triumph in conquering the reverence of a critic habitually captious and satirical: no wonder, then, that an enthusiastic self-distrusting youth should watch and wait before the closed secret of a sarcastic woman’s face, as if it were the shrine of the doubtfully benignant deity who ruled his destiny. For a young enthusiast is unable to imagine the total negation in another mind of the emotions which are stirring his own: they may be feeble, latent, inactive, he thinks, but they are there—they may be called forth; sometimes, in moments of happy hallucination, he believes they may be there in all the greater strength because he sees no outward sign of them. And this effect, as I have intimated, was heightened to its utmost intensity in me, because Bertha was the only being who remained for me in the mysterious seclusion of soul that renders such youthful delusion possible. Doubtless there was another sort of fascination at work—that subtle physical attraction which delights in cheating our psychological predictions, and in compelling the men who paint sylphs, to fall in love with some bonne et brave femme, heavy-heeled and freckled. Bertha’s behaviour towards me was such as to encourage all my illusions, to heighten my boyish passion, and make me more and more dependent on her smiles. Looking back with my present wretched knowledge, I conclude that her vanity and love of power were intensely gratified by the belief that I had fainted on first seeing her purely from the strong impression her person had produced on me. The most prosaic woman likes to believe herself the object of a violent, a poetic passion; and without a grain of romance in her, Bertha had that spirit of intrigue which gave piquancy to the idea that the brother of the man she meant to marry was dying with love and jealousy for her sake. That she meant to marry my brother was what at that time I did not believe; for though he was assiduous in his attentions to her, and I knew well enough that both he and my father had made up their minds to this result, there was not yet an understood engagement—there had been no explicit declaration; and Bertha habitually, while she flirted with my brother, and accepted his homage in a way that implied to him a thorough recogni- tion of its intention, made me believe, by the subtlest looks and phrases— feminine nothings which could never be quoted against her—that he

170 George Eliot was really the object of her secret ridicule; that she thought him, as I did, a coxcomb, whom she would have pleasure in disappointing. Me she openly petted in my brother’s presence, as if I were too young and sickly ever to be thought of as a lover; and that was the view he took of me. But I believe she must inwardly have delighted in the tremors into which she threw me by the coaxing way in which she patted my curls, while she laughed at my quotations. Such caresses were always given in the presence of our friends; for when we were alone together, she affected a much greater distance towards me, and now and then took the opportunity, by words or slight actions, to stimulate my foolish timid hope that she really preferred me. And why should she not follow her inclination? I was not in so advantageous a position as my brother, but I had fortune, I was not a year younger than she was, and she was an heiress, who would soon be of age to decide for herself. The fluctuations of hope and fear, confined to this one channel, made each day in her presence a delicious torment. There was one deliberate act of hers which especially helped to intoxicate me. When we were at Vienna her twentieth birthday occurred, and as she was very fond of ornaments, we all took the opportunity of the splendid jewellers’ shops in that Teutonic Paris to purchase her a birthday present of jewellery. Mine, naturally, was the least expensive; it was an opal ring—the opal was my favourite stone, because it seems to blush and turn pale as if it had a soul. I told Bertha so when I gave it her, and said that it was an emblem of the poetic nature, changing with the changing light of heaven and of woman’s eyes. In the evening she appeared elegantly dressed, and wearing conspicuously all the birthday presents except mine. I looked eagerly at her fingers, but saw no opal. I had no opportunity of noticing this to her during the evening; but the next day, when I found her seated near the window alone, after breakfast, I said, “You scorn to wear my poor opal. I should have remembered that you despised poetic natures, and should have given you coral, or turquoise, or some other opaque unresponsive stone.” “Do I despise it?” she answered, taking hold of a delicate gold chain which she always wore round her neck and drawing out the end from her bosom with my ring hanging to it; “it hurts me a little, I can tell you,” she said, with her usual dubious smile, “to wear it in that secret place; and since your poetical nature is so stupid as to prefer a more public position, I shall not endure the pain any longer.” She took off the ring from the chain and put it on her finger, smiling still, while the blood rushed to my cheeks, and I could not trust myself

171TH E LI F TE D VE I L to say a word of entreaty that she would keep the ring where it was before. I was completely fooled by this, and for two days shut myself up in my own room whenever Bertha was absent, that I might intoxicate myself afresh with the thought of this scene and all it implied. I should mention that during these two months—which seemed a long life to me from the novelty and intensity of the pleasures and pains I underwent—my diseased participation in other people’s consciousness continued to torment me; now it was my father, and now my brother, now Mrs. Filmore or her husband, and now our German courier, whose stream of thought rushed upon me like a ringing in the ears not to be got rid of, though it allowed my own impulses and ideas to continue their uninterrupted course. It was like a preternaturally heightened sense of hearing, making audible to one a roar of sound where others find perfect stillness, The weariness and disgust of this involuntary intrusion into other souls was counteracted only by my ignorance of Bertha, and my growing passion for her; a passion enormously stimulated, if not produced, by that ignorance. She was my oasis of mystery in the dreary desert of knowledge. I had never allowed my diseased condition to betray itself, or to drive me into any unusual speech or action, except once, when, in a moment of peculiar bitterness against my brother, I had forestalled some words which I knew he was going to utter—a clever observation, which he had prepared beforehand. He had occasionally a slightly-affected hesitation in his speech, and when he paused an instant after the second word, my impatience and jealousy impelled me to continue the speech for him, as if it were something we had both learned by rote. He coloured and looked astonished, as well as annoyed; and the words had no sooner escaped my lips than I felt a shock of alarm lest such an anticipation of words—very far from being words of course, easy to divine—should have betrayed me as an exceptional being, a sort of quiet energumen, whom every one, Bertha above all, would shudder at and avoid. But I magnified, as usual, the impression any word or deed of mine could produce on others; for no one gave any sign of having noticed my interruption as more than a rudeness, to be forgiven me on the score of my feeble nervous condition. While this superadded consciousness of the actual was almost constant with me, I had never had a recurrence of that distinct prevision which I have described in relation to my first interview with Bertha; and I was waiting with eager curiosity to know whether or not my vision of Prague

172 George Eliot would prove to have been an instance of the same kind. A few days after the incident of the opal ring, we were paying one of our frequent visits to the Lichtenberg Palace. I could never look at many pictures in succession; for pictures, when they are at all powerful, affect me so strongly that one or two exhaust all my capability of contemplation. This morning I had been looking at Giorgione’s picture of the cruel- eyed woman, said to be a likeness of Lucrezia Borgia. I had stood long alone before it, fascinated by the terrible reality of that cunning, relentless face, till I felt a strange poisoned sensation, as if I had long been inhaling a fatal odour, and was just beginning to be conscious of its effects. Perhaps even then I should not have moved away, if the rest of the party had not returned to this room, and announced that they were going to the Belvedere Gallery to settle a bet which had arisen between my brother and Mr. Filmore about a portrait. I followed them dreamily, and was hardly alive to what occurred till they had all gone up to the gallery, leaving me below; for I refused to come within sight of another picture that day. I made my way to the Grand Terrace, since it was agreed that we should saunter in the gardens when the dispute had been decided. I had been sitting here a short space, vaguely conscious of trim gardens, with a city and green hills in the distance, when, wishing to avoid the proximity of the sentinel, I rose and walked down the broad stone steps, intending to seat myself farther on in the gardens. Just as I reached the gravel-walk, I felt an arm slipped within mine, and a light hand gently pressing my wrist. In the same instant a strange intoxicating numbness passed over me, like the continuance or climax of the sensation I was still feeling from the gaze of Lucrezia Borgia. The gardens, the summer sky, the consciousness of Bertha’s arm being within mine, all vanished, and I seemed to be suddenly in darkness, out of which there gradually broke a dim firelight, and I felt myself sitting in my father’s leather chair in the library at home. I knew the fireplace—the dogs for the wood- fire—the black marble chimneypiece with the white marble medallion of the dying Cleopatra in the centre. Intense and hopeless misery was pressing on my soul; the light became stronger, for Bertha was entering with a candle in her hand—Bertha, my wife—with cruel eyes, with green jewels and green leaves on her white ball-dress; every hateful thought within her present to me. . . . “Madman, idiot! Why don’t you kill yourself, then?” It was a moment of hell. I saw into her pitiless soul— saw its barren worldliness, its scorching hate—and felt it clothe me round like an air I was obliged to breathe. She came with her candle and stood over me with a bitter smile of contempt; I saw the great emerald brooch on

173TH E LI F TE D VE I L her bosom, a studded serpent with diamond eyes. I shuddered—I despised this woman with the barren soul and mean thoughts; but I felt helpless before her, as if she clutched my bleeding heart, and would clutch it till the last drop of life-blood ebbed away. She was my wife, and we hated each other. Gradually the hearth, the dim library, the candlelight disappeared—seemed to melt away into a background of light, the green serpent with the diamond eyes remaining a dark image on the retina. Then I had a sense of my eyelids quivering, and the living daylight broke in upon me; I saw gardens, and heard voices; I was seated on the steps of the Belvedere Terrace, and my friends were round me. The tumult of mind into which I was thrown by this hideous vision made me ill for several days, and prolonged our stay at Vienna. I shuddered with horror as the scene recurred to me; and it recurred constantly, with all its minutiae, as if they had been burnt into my memory; and yet, such is the madness of the human heart under the influence of its immediate desires, I felt a wild hell-braving joy that Bertha was to be mine; for the fulfilment of my former prevision concerning her first appearance before me, left me little hope that this last hideous glimpse of the future was the mere diseased play of my own mind, and had no relation to external realities. One thing alone I looked towards as a possible means of casting doubt on my terrible conviction— the discovery that my vision of Prague had been false—and Prague was the next city on our route. Meanwhile, I was no sooner in Bertha’s society again, than I was as completely under her sway as before. What if I saw into the heart of Bertha, the matured woman—Bertha, my wife? Bertha, the girl, was a fascinating secret to me still: I trembled under her touch; I felt the witchery of her presence; I yearned to be assured of her love. The fear of poison is feeble against the sense of thirst. Nay, I was just as jealous of my brother as before—just as much irritated by his small patronizing ways; for my pride, my diseased sensibility, were there as they had always been, and winced as inevitably under every offence as my eye winced from an intruding mote. The future, even when brought within the compass of feeling by a vision that made me shudder, had still no more than the force of an idea, compared with the force of present emotion—of my love for Bertha, of my dislike and jealousy towards my brother. It is an old story, that men sell themselves to the tempter, and sign a bond with their blood, because it is only to take effect at a distant day; then rush on to snatch the cup their souls thirst after with an impulse not the less savage because there is a dark shadow beside them for evermore.

174 George Eliot There is no short cut, no patent tram-road, to wisdom: after all the centuries of invention, the soul’s path lies through the thorny wilderness which must be still trodden in solitude, with bleeding feet, with sobs for help, as it was trodden by them of old time. My mind speculated eagerly on the means by which I should become my brother’s successful rival, for I was still too timid, in my ignorance of Bertha’s actual feeling, to venture on any step that would urge from her an avowal of it. I thought I should gain confidence even for this, if my vision of Prague proved to have been veracious; and yet, the horror of that certitude! Behind the slim girl Bertha, whose words and looks I watched for, whose touch was bliss, there stood continually that Bertha with the fuller form, the harder eyes, the more rigid mouth—with the barren, selfish soul laid bare; no longer a fascinating secret, but a measured fact, urging itself perpetually on my unwilling sight. Are you unable to give me your sympathy—you who read this? Are you unable to imagine this double consciousness at work within me, flowing on like two parallel streams which never mingle their waters and blend into a common hue? Yet you must have known something of the presentiments that spring from an insight at war with passion; and my visions were only like presentiments intensified to horror. You have known the powerlessness of ideas before the might of impulse; and my visions, when once they had passed into memory, were mere ideas—and pale shadows that beckoned in vain, while my hand was grasped by the living and the loved. In after-days I thought with bitter regret that if I had foreseen something more or something different—if instead of that hideous vision which poisoned the passion it could not destroy, or if even along with it I could have had a foreshadowing of that moment when I looked on my brother’s face for the last time, some softening influence would have been shed over my feeling towards him: pride and hatred would surely have been subdued into pity, and the record of those hidden sins would have been shortened. But this is one of the vain thoughts with which we men flatter ourselves. We try to believe that the egoism within us would have easily been melted, and that it was only the narrowness of our knowledge which hemmed in our generosity, our awe, our human piety, and hindered them from submerging our hard indifference to the sensations and emotions of our fellows. Our tenderness and self-renunciation seem strong when our egoism has had its day—when, after our mean striving for a triumph that is to be another’s loss, the triumph comes suddenly, and we shudder at it, because it is held out by the chill hand of death. Our arrival in Prague happened at night, and I was glad of this, for

175TH E LI F TE D VE I L it seemed like a deferring of a terribly decisive moment, to be in the city for hours without seeing it. As we were not to remain long in Prague, but to go on speedily to Dresden, it was proposed that we should drive out the next morning and take a general view of the place, as well as visit some of its specially interesting spots, before the heat became oppressive—for we were in August, and the season was hot and dry. But it happened that the ladies were rather late at their morning toilet, and to my father’s politely-repressed but perceptible annoyance, we were not in the carriage till the morning was far advanced. I thought with a sense of relief, as we entered the Jews’ quarter, where we were to visit the old synagogue, that we should be kept in this flat, shut-up part of the city, until we should all be too tired and too warm to go farther, and so we should return without seeing more than the streets through which we had already passed. That would give me another day’s suspense— suspense, the only form in which a fearful spirit knows the solace of hope. But, as I stood under the blackened, groined arches of that old synagogue, made dimly visible by the seven thin candles in the sacred lamp, while our Jewish cicerone reached down the Book of the Law, and read to us in its ancient tongue—I felt a shuddering impression that this strange building, with its shrunken lights, this surviving withered remnant of medieval Judaism, was of a piece with my vision. Those darkened dusty Christian saints, with their loftier arches and their larger candles, needed the consolatory scorn with which they might point to a more shrivelled death-in-life than their own. As I expected, when we left the Jews’ quarter the elders of our party wished to return to the hotel. But now, instead of rejoicing in this, as I had done beforehand, I felt a sudden overpowering impulse to go on at once to the bridge, and put an end to the suspense I had been wishing to protract. I declared, with unusual decision, that I would get out of the carriage and walk on alone; they might return without me. My father, thinking this merely a sample of my usual “poetic nonsense,” objected that I should only do myself harm by walking in the heat; but when I persisted, he said angrily that I might follow my own absurd devices, but that Schmidt (our courier) must go with me. I assented to this, and set off with Schmidt towards the bridge. I had no sooner passed from under the archway of the grand old gate leading on to the bridge than a trembling seized me, and I turned cold under the midday sun; yet I went on; I was in search of something—a small detail which I remembered with special intensity as part of my vision. There it was—the patch of rainbow light on the pavement transmitted through a lamp in the shape of a star.

176 George Eliot CHAPTER II Before the autumn was at an end, and while the brown leaves still stood thick on the beeches in our park, my brother and Bertha were engaged to each other, and it was understood that their marriage was to take place early in the next spring. In spite of the certainty I had felt from that moment on the bridge at Prague, that Bertha would one day be my wife, my constitutional timidity and distrust had continued to benumb me, and the words in which I had sometimes premeditated a confession of my love, had died away unuttered. The same conflict had gone on within me as before—the longing for an assurance of love from Bertha’s lips, the dread lest a word of contempt and denial should fall upon me like a corrosive acid. What was the conviction of a distant necessity to me? I trembled under a present glance, I hungered after a present joy, I was clogged and chilled by a present fear. And so the days passed on: I witnessed Bertha’s engagement and heard her marriage discussed as if I were under a conscious nightmare—knowing it was a dream that would vanish, but feeling stifled under the grasp of hard- clutching fingers. When I was not in Bertha’s presence—and I was with her very often, for she continued to treat me with a playful patronage that wakened no jealousy in my brother—I spent my time chiefly in wandering, in strolling, or taking long rides while the daylight lasted, and then shutting myself up with my unread books; for books had lost the power of chaining my attention. My self-consciousness was heightened to that pitch of intensity in which our own emotions take the form of a drama which urges itself imperatively on our contemplation, and we begin to weep, less under the sense of our suffering than at the thought of it. I felt a sort of pitying anguish over the pathos of my own lot: the lot of a being finely organized for pain, but with hardly any fibres that responded to pleasusre—to whom the idea of future evil robbed the present of its joy, and for whom the idea of future good did not still the uneasiness of a present yearning or a present dread. I went dumbly through that stage of the poet’s suffering, in which he feels the delicious pang of utterance, and makes an image of his sorrows. I was left entirely without remonstrance concerning this dreamy wayward life: I knew my father’s thought about me: “That lad will never be good for anything in life: he may waste his years in an insignificant way on the income that falls to him: I shall not trouble myself about a career for him.”

177TH E LI F TE D VE I L One mild morning in the beginning of November, it happened that I was standing outside the portico patting lazy old Caesar, a Newfoundland almost blind with age, the only dog that ever took any notice of me—for the very dogs shunned me, and fawned on the happier people about me—when the groom brought up my brother’s horse which was to carry him to the hunt, and my brother himself appeared at the door, florid, broad-chested, and self-complacent, feeling what a good-natured fellow he was not to behave insolently to us all on the strength of his great advantages. “Latimer, old boy,” he said to me in a tone of compassionate cordiality, “what a pity it is you don’t have a run with the hounds now and then! The finest thing in the world for low spirits!” “Low spirits!” I thought bitterly, as he rode away; “that is the sort of phrase with which coarse, narrow natures like yours think to describe experience of which you can know no more than your horse knows. It is to such as you that the good of this world falls: ready dullness, healthy selfishness, good-tempered conceit—these are the keys to happiness.” The quick thought came, that my selfishness was even stronger than his—it was only a suffering selfishness instead of an enjoying one. But then, again, my exasperating insight into Alfred’s self-complacent soul, his freedom from all the doubts and fears, the unsatisfied yearnings, the exquisite tortures of sensitiveness, that had made the web of my life, seemed to absolve me from all bonds towards him. This man needed no pity, no love; those fine influences would have been as little felt by him as the delicate white mist is felt by the rock it caresses. There was no evil in store for him: if he was not to marry Bertha, it would be because he had found a lot pleasanter to himself. Mr. Filmore’s house lay not more than half a mile beyond our own gates, and whenever I knew my brother was gone in another direction, I went there for the chance of finding Bertha at home. Later on in the day I walked thither. By a rare accident she was alone, and we walked out in the grounds together, for she seldom went on foot beyond the trimly-swept gravel-walks. I remember what a beautiful sylph she looked to me as the low November sun shone on her blond hair, and she tripped along teasing me with her usual light banter, to which I listened half fondly, half moodily; it was all the sign Bertha’s mysterious inner self ever made to me. To-day perhaps the moodiness predominated, for I had not yet shaken off the access of jealous hate which my brother had raised in me by his parting patronage. Suddenly I interrupted and startled her by saying, almost fiercely, “Bertha, how can you love Alfred?”

178 George Eliot She looked at me with surprise for a moment, but soon her light smile came again, and she answered sarcastically, “Why do you suppose I love him?” “How can you ask that, Bertha?” “What! Your wisdom thinks I must love the man I’m going to marry? The most unpleasant thing in the world. I should quarrel with him; I should be jealous of him; our ménage would be conducted in a very ill- bred manner. A little quiet contempt contributes greatly to the elegance of life.” “Bertha, that is not your real feeling. Why do you delight in trying to deceive me by inventing such cynical speeches?” “I need never take the trouble of invention in order to deceive you, my small Tasso”—that was the mocking name she usually gave me. “The easiest way to deceive a poet is to tell him the truth.” She was testing the validity of her epigram in a daring way, and for a moment the shadow of my vision—the Bertha whose soul was no secret to me—passed between me and the radiant girl, the playful sylph whose feelings were a fascinating mystery. I suppose I must have shuddered, or betrayed in some other way my momentary chill of horror. “Tasso!” she said, seizing my wrist, and peeping round into my face, “are you really beginning to discern what a heartless girl I am? Why, you are not half the poet I thought you were; you are actually capable of believing the truth about me.” The shadow passed from between us, and was no longer the object nearest to me. The girl whose light fingers grasped me, whose elfish charming face looked into mine—who, I thought, was betraying an interest in my feelings that she would not have directly avowed—this warm breathing presence again possessed my senses and imagination like a returning siren melody which had been overpowered for an instant by the roar of threatening waves. It was a moment as delicious to me as the waking up to a consciousness of youth after a dream of middle age. I forgot everything but my passion, and said with swimming eyes— “Bertha, shall you love me when we are first married? I wouldn’t mind if you really loved me only for a little while.” Her look of astonishment, as she loosed my hand and started away from me, recalled me to a sense of my strange, my criminal indiscretion. “Forgive me,” I said, hurriedly, as soon as I could speak again; “I did not know what I was saying.” “Ah, Tasso’s mad fit has come on, I see,” she answered quietly, for she

179TH E LI F TE D VE I L had recovered herself sooner than I had. “Let him go home and keep his head cool. I must go in, for the sun is setting.” I left her—full of indignation against myself. I had let slip words which, if she reflected on them, might rouse in her a suspicion of my abnormal mental condition—a suspicion which of all things I dreaded. And besides that, I was ashamed of the apparent baseness I had committed in uttering them to my brother’s betrothed wife. I wandered home slowly, entering our park through a private gate instead of by the lodges. As I approached the house, I saw a man dashing off at full speed from the stable-yard across the park. Had any accident happened at home? No; perhaps it was only one of my father’s peremptory business errands that required this headlong haste. Nevertheless I quickened my pace without any distinct motive, and was soon at the house. I will not dwell on the scene I found there. My brother was dead—had been pitched from his horse, and killed on the spot by a concussion of the brain. I went up to the room where he lay, and where my father was seated beside him with a look of rigid despair. I had shunned my father more than any one since our return home, for the radical antipathy between our natures made my insight into his inner self a constant affliction to me. But now, as I went up to him, and stood beside him in sad silence, I felt the presence of a new element that blended us as we had never been blent before. My father had been one of the most successful men in the money-getting world: he had had no sentimental sufferings, no illness. The heaviest trouble that had befallen him was the death of his first wife. But he married my mother soon after; and I remember he seemed exactly the same, to my keen childish observation, the week after her death as before. But now, at last, a sorrow had come—the sorrow of old age, which suffers the more from the crushing of its pride and its hopes, in proportion as the pride and hope are narrow and prosaic. His son was to have been married soon—would probably have stood for the borough at the next election. That son’s existence was the best motive that could be alleged for making new purchases of land every year to round off the estate. It is a dreary thing to live on doing the same things year after year, without knowing why we do them. Perhaps the tragedy of disappointed youth and passion is less piteous than the tragedy of disappointed age and worldliness. As I saw into the desolation of my father’s heart, I felt a movement of deep pity towards him, which was the beginning of a new affection—an

180 George Eliot affection that grew and strengthened in spite of the strange bitterness with which he regarded me in the first month or two after my brother’s death. If it had not been for the softening influence of my compassion for him—the first deep compassion I had ever felt—I should have been stung by the perception that my father transferred the inheritance of an eldest son to me with a mortified sense that fate had compelled him to the unwelcome course of caring for me as an important being. It was only in spite of himself that he began to think of me with anxious regard. There is hardly any neglected child for whom death has made vacant a more favoured place, who will not understand what I mean. Gradually, however, my new deference to his wishes, the effect of that patience which was born of my pity for him, won upon his affection, and he began to please himself with the endeavour to make me fill my brother’s place as fully as my feebler personality would admit. I saw that the prospect which by and by presented itself of my becoming Bertha’s husband was welcome to him, and he even contemplated in my case what he had not intended in my brother’s—that his son and daughter-in-law should make one household with him. My softened feeling towards my father made this the happiest time I had known since childhood—these last months in which I retained the delicious illusion of loving Bertha, of longing and doubting and hoping that she might love me. She behaved with a certain new consciousness and distance towards me after my brother’s death; and I too was under a double constraint—that of delicacy towards my brother’s memory, and of anxiety as to the impression my abrupt words had left on her mind. But the additional screen this mutual reserve erected between us only brought me more completely under her power: no matter how empty the adytum, so that the veil be thick enough. So absolute is our soul’s need of something hidden and uncertain for the maintenance of that doubt and hope and effort which are the breath of its life, that if the whole future were laid bare to us beyond to-day, the interest of all mankind would be bent on the hours that lie between; we should pant after the uncertainties of our one morning and our one afternoon; we should rush fiercely to the Exchange for our last possibility of speculation, of success, of disappointment: we should have a glut of political prophets foretelling a crisis or a no-crisis within the only twenty-four hours left open to prophecy. Conceive the condition of the human mind if all propositions whatsoever were self-evident except one, which was to become self-evident at the close of a summer’s day, but in the meantime might be the subject of question, of hypothesis, of debate.

181TH E LI F TE D VE I L Art and philosophy, literature and science, would fasten like bees on that one proposition which had the honey of probability in it, and be the more eager because their enjoyment would end with sunset. Our impulses, our spiritual activities, no more adjust themselves to the idea of their future nullity, than the beating of our heart, or the irritability of our muscles. Bertha, the slim, fair-haired girl, whose present thoughts and emotions were an enigma to me amidst the fatiguing obviousness of the other minds around me, was as absorbing to me as a single unknown to-day—as a single hypothetic proposition to remain problematic till sunset; and all the cramped, hemmed-in belief and disbelief, trust and distrust, of my nature, welled out in this one narrow channel. And she made me believe that she loved me. Without ever quitting her tone of badinage and playful superiority, she intoxicated me with the sense that I was necessary to her, that she was never at ease unless I was near her, submitting to her playful tyranny. It costs a woman so little effort to besot us in this way! A half-repressed word, a moment’s unexpected silence, even an easy fit of petulance on our account, will serve us as hashish for a long while. Out of the subtlest web of scarcely perceptible signs, she set me weaving the fancy that she had always unconsciously loved me better than Alfred, but that, with the ignorant fluttered sensibility of a young girl, she had been imposed on by the charm that lay for her in the distinction of being admired and chosen by a man who made so brilliant a figure in the world as my brother. She satirized herself in a very graceful way for her vanity and ambition. What was it to me that I had the light of my wretched provision on the fact that now it was I who possessed at least all but the personal part of my brother’s advantages? Our sweet illusions are half of them conscious illusions, like effects of colour that we know to be made up of tinsel, broken glass, and rags. We were married eighteen months after Alfred’s death, one cold, clear morning in April, when there came hail and sunshine both together; and Bertha, in her white silk and pale-green leaves, and the pale hues of her hair and face, looked like the spirit of the morning. My father was happier than he had thought of being again: my marriage, he felt sure, would complete the desirable modification of my character, and make me practical and worldly enough to take my place in society among sane men. For he delighted in Bertha’s tact and acuteness, and felt sure she would be mistress of me, and make me what she chose: I was only

182 George Eliot twenty-one, and madly in love with her. Poor father! He kept that hope a little while after our first year of marriage, and it was not quite extinct when paralysis came and saved him from utter disappointment. I shall hurry through the rest of my story, not dwelling so much as I have hitherto done on my inward experience. When people are well known to each other, they talk rather of what befalls them externally, leaving their feelings and sentiments to be inferred. We lived in a round of visits for some time after our return home, giving splendid dinner-parties, and making a sensation in our neighbourhood by the new lustre of our equipage, for my father had reserved this display of his increased wealth for the period of his son’s marriage; and we gave our acquaintances liberal opportunity for remarking that it was a pity I made so poor a figure as an heir and a bridegroom. The nervous fatigue of this existence, the insincerities and platitudes which I had to live through twice over—through my inner and outward sense— would have been maddening to me, if I had not had that sort of intoxicated callousness which came from the delights of a first passion. A bride and bridegroom, surrounded by all the appliances of wealth, hurried through the day by the whirl of society, filling their solitary moments with hastily snatched caresses, are prepared for their future life together as the novice is prepared for the cloister—by experiencing its utmost contrast. Through all these crowded excited months, Bertha’s inward self remained shrouded from me, and I still read her thoughts only through the language of her lips and demeanour: I had still the human interest of wondering whether what I did and said pleased her, of longing to hear a word of affection, of giving a delicious exaggeration of meaning to her smile. But I was conscious of a growing difference in her manner towards me; sometimes strong enough to be called haughty coldness, cutting and chilling me as the hail had done that came across the sunshine on our marriage morning; sometimes only perceptible in the dexterous avoidance of a tête-à-tête walk or dinner to which I had been looking forward. I had been deeply pained by this—had even felt a sort of crushing of the heart, from the sense that my brief day of happiness was near its setting; but still I remained dependent on Bertha, eager for the last rays of a bliss that would soon be gone for ever, hoping and watching for some afterglow more beautiful from the impending night. I remember—how should I not remember?—the time when that dependence and hope utterly left me, when the sadness I had felt in Bertha’s growing estrangement became a joy that I looked back upon with longing as a man might look back on the last pains in a paralysed

183TH E LI F TE D VE I L limb. It was just after the close of my father’s last illness, which had necessarily withdrawn us from society and thrown us more upon each other. It was the evening of my father’s death. On that evening the veil which had shrouded Bertha’s soul from me—had made me find in her alone among my fellow-beings the blessed possibility of mystery, and doubt, and expectation—was first withdrawn. Perhaps it was the first day since the beginning of my passion for her, in which that passion was completely neutralized by the presence of an absorbing feeling of another kind. I had been watching by my father’s deathbed: I had been witnessing the last fitful yearning glance his soul had cast back on the spent inheritance of life—the last faint consciousness of love he had gathered from the pressure of my hand. What are all our personal loves when we have been sharing in that supreme agony? In the first moments when we come away from the presence of death, every other relation to the living is merged, to our feeling, in the great relation of a common nature and a common destiny. In that state of mind I joined Bertha in her private sitting-room. She was seated in a leaning posture on a settee, with her back towards the door; the great rich coils of her pale blond hair surmounting her small neck, visible above the back of the settee. I remember, as I closed the door behind me, a cold tremulousness seizing me, and a vague sense of being hated and lonely—vague and strong, like a presentiment. I know how I looked at that moment, for I saw myself in Bertha’s thought as she lifted her cutting grey eyes, and looked at me: a miserable ghost-seer, surrounded by phantoms in the noonday, trembling under a breeze when the leaves were still, without appetite for the common objects of human desires, but pining after the moonbeams. We were front to front with each other, and judged each other. The terrible moment of complete illumination had come to me, and I saw that the darkness had hidden no landscape from me, but only a blank prosaic wall: from that evening forth, through the sickening years which followed, I saw all round the narrow room of this woman’s soul—saw petty artifice and mere negation where I had delighted to believe in coy sensibilities and in wit at war with latent feeling—saw the light floating vanities of the girl defining themselves into the systematic coquetry, the scheming selfishness, of the woman—saw repulsion and antipathy harden into cruel hatred, giving pain only for the sake of wreaking itself. For Bertha too, after her kind, felt the bitterness of disillusion. She had believed that my wild poet’s passion for her would make me her slave; and that, being her slave, I should execute her will in all things. With the

184 George Eliot essential shallowness of a negative, unimaginative nature, she was unable to conceive the fact that sensibilities were anything else than weaknesses. She had thought my weaknesses would put me in her power, and she found them unmanageable forces. Our positions were reversed. Before marriage she had completely mastered my imagination, for she was a secret to me; and I created the unknown thought before which I trembled as if it were hers. But now that her soul was laid open to me, now that I was compelled to share the privacy of her motives, to follow all the petty devices that preceded her words and acts, she found herself powerless with me, except to produce in me the chill shudder of repulsion— powerless, because I could be acted on by no lever within her reach. I was dead to worldly ambitions, to social vanities, to all the incentives within the compass of her narrow imagination, and I lived under influences utterly invisible to her. She was really pitiable to have such a husband, and so all the world thought. A graceful, brilliant woman, like Bertha, who smiled on morning callers, made a figure in ball-rooms, and was capable of that light repartee which, from such a woman, is accepted as wit, was secure of carrying off all sympathy from a husband who was sickly, abstracted, and, as some suspected, crack-brained. Even the servants in our house gave her the balance of their regard and pity. For there were no audible quarrels between us; our alienation, our repulsion from each other, lay within the silence of our own hearts; and if the mistress went out a great deal, and seemed to dislike the master’s society, was it not natural, poor thing? The master was odd. I was kind and just to my dependants, but I excited in them a shrinking, half-contemptuous pity; for this class of men and women are but slightly determined in their estimate of others by general considerations, or even experience, of character. They judge of persons as they judge of coins, and value those who pass current at a high rate. After a time I interfered so little with Bertha’s habits that it might seem wonderful how her hatred towards me could grow so intense and active as it did. But she had begun to suspect, by some involuntary betrayal of mine, that there was an abnormal power of penetration in me—that fitfully, at least, I was strangely cognizant of her thoughts and intentions, and she began to be haunted by a terror of me, which alternated every now and then with defiance. She meditated continually how the incubus could be shaken off her life—how she could be freed from this hateful bond to a being whom she at once despised as an imbecile, and dreaded as an inquisitor. For a long while she lived in the hope that my evident

185TH E LI F TE D VE I L wretchedness would drive me to the commission of suicide; but suicide was not in my nature. I was too completely swayed by the sense that I was in the grasp of unknown forces, to believe in my power of self- release. Towards my own destiny I had become entirely passive; for my one ardent desire had spent itself, and impulse no longer predominated over knowledge. For this reason I never thought of taking any steps towards a complete separation, which would have made our alienation evident to the world. Why should I rush for help to a new course, when I was only suffering from the consequences of a deed which had been the act of my intensest will? That would have been the logic of one who had desires to gratify, and I had no desires. But Bertha and I lived more and more aloof from each other. The rich find it easy to live married and apart. That course of our life which I have indicated in a few sentences filled the space of years. So much misery—so slow and hideous a growth of hatred and sin, may be compressed into a sentence! And men judge of each other’s lives through this summary medium. They epitomize the experience of their fellow-mortal, and pronounce judgment on him in neat syntax, and feel themselves wise and virtuous—conquerors over the temptations they define in well-selected predicates. Seven years of wretchedness glide glibly over the lips of the man who has never counted them out in moments of chill disappointment, of head and heart throbbings, of dread and vain wrestling, of remorse and despair. We learn words by rote, but not their meaning; that must be paid for with our life-blood, and printed in the subtle fibres of our nerves. But I will hasten to finish my story. Brevity is justified at once to those who readily understand, and to those who will never understand. Some years after my father’s death, I was sitting by the dim firelight in my library one January evening—sitting in the leather chair that used to be my father’s—when Bertha appeared at the door, with a candle in her hand, and advanced towards me. I knew the ball-dress she had on— the white ball-dress, with the green jewels, shone upon by the light of the wax candle which lit up the medallion of the dying Cleopatra on the mantelpiece. Why did she come to me before going out? I had not seen her in the library, which was my habitual place for months. Why did she stand before me with the candle in her hand, with her cruel contemptuous eyes fixed on me, and the glittering serpent, like a familiar demon, on her breast? For a moment I thought this fulfilment of my vision at Vienna marked some dreadful crisis in my fate, but I saw nothing in Bertha’s mind, as she stood before me, except scorn for the look of over-

186 George Eliot whelming misery with which I sat before her. . . . “Fool, idiot, why don’t you kill yourself, then?” that was her thought. But at length her thoughts reverted to her errand, and she spoke aloud. The apparently indifferent nature of the errand seemed to make a ridiculous anticlimax to my prevision and my agitation. “I have had to hire a new maid. Fletcher is going to be married, and she wants me to ask you to let her husband have the public house and farm at Molton. I wish him to have it. You must give the promise now, because Fletcher is going to-morrow morning—and quickly, because I’m in a hurry.” “Very well; you may promise her,” I said, indifferently, and Bertha swept out of the library again. I always shrank from the sight of a new person, and all the more when it was a person whose mental life was likely to weary my reluctant insight with worldly ignorant trivialities. But I shrank especially from the sight of this new maid, because her advent had been announced to me at a moment to which I could not cease to attach some fatality: I had a vague dread that I should find her mixed up with the dreary drama of my life—that some new sickening vision would reveal her to me as an evil genius. When at last I did unavoidably meet her, the vague dread was changed into definite disgust. She was a tall, wiry, dark-eyed woman, this Mrs. Archer, with a face handsome enough to give her coarse hard nature the odious finish of bold, self-confident coquetry. That was enough to make me avoid her, quite apart from the contemptuous feeling with which she contemplated me. I seldom saw her; but I perceived that she rapidly became a favourite with her mistress, and, after the lapse of eight or nine months, I began to be aware that there had arisen in Bertha’s mind towards this woman a mingled feeling of fear and dependence, and that this feeling was associated with ill-defined images of candlelight scenes in her dressing-room, and the locking-up of something in Bertha’s cabinet. My interviews with my wife had become so brief and so rarely solitary, that I had no opportunity of perceiving these images in her mind with more definiteness. The recollections of the past become contracted in the rapidity of thought till they sometimes bear hardly a more distinct resemblance to the external reality than the forms of an oriental alphabet to the objects that suggested them. Besides, for the last year or more a modification had been going forward in my mental condition, and was growing more and more marked. My insight into the minds of those around me was becoming dimmer and more fitful, and the ideas that crowded my double consciousness became

187TH E LI F TE D VE I L less and less dependent on any personal contact. All that was personal in me seemed to be suffering a gradual death, so that I was losing the organ through which the personal agitations and projects of others could affect me. But along with this relief from wearisome insight, there was a new development of what I concluded—as I have since found rightly—to be a prevision of external scenes. It was as if the relation between me and my fellow-men was more and more deadened, and my relation to what we call the inanimate was quickened into new life. The more I lived apart from society, and in proportion as my wretchedness subsided from the violent throb of agonized passion into the dullness of habitual pain, the more frequent and vivid became such visions as that I had had of Prague—of strange cities, of sandy plains, of gigantic ruins, of mid- night skies with strange bright constellations, of mountain passes, of grassy nooks flecked with the afternoon sunshine through the boughs: I was in the midst of such scenes, and in all of them one presence seemed to weigh on me in all these mighty shapes—the presence of something unknown and pitiless. For continual suffering had annihilated religious faith within me: to the utterly miserable—the unloving and the unloved— there is no religion possible, no worship but a worship of devils. And beyond all these, and continually recurring, was the vision of my death— the pangs, the suffocation, the last struggle, when life would be grasped at in vain. Things were in this state near the end of the seventh year. I had become entirely free from insight, from my abnormal cognizance of any other consciousness than my own, and instead of intruding involuntarily into the world of other minds, was living continually in my own solitary future. Bertha was aware that I was greatly changed. To my surprise she had of late seemed to seek opportunities of remaining in my society, and had cultivated that kind of distant yet familiar talk which is customary between a husband and wife who live in polite and irrevocable alienation. I bore this with languid submission, and without feeling enough interest in her motives to be roused into keen observation; yet I could not help perceiving something triumphant and excited in her carriage and the expression of her face—something too subtle to express itself in words or tones, but giving one the idea that she lived in a state of expectation or hopeful suspense. My chief feeling was satisfaction that her inner self was once more shut out from me; and I almost revelled for the moment in the absent melancholy that made me answer her at cross purposes, and betray utter ignorance of what she had been saying. I remember well the look and the smile with which she one day said, after

188 George Eliot a mistake of this kind on my part: “I used to think you were a clairvoyant, and that was the reason why you were so bitter against other clairvoyants, wanting to keep your monopoly; but I see now you have become rather duller than the rest of the world.” I said nothing in reply. It occurred to me that her recent obtrusion of herself upon me might have been prompted by the wish to test my power of detecting some of her secrets; but I let the thought drop again at once: her motives and her deeds had no interest for me, and whatever pleasures she might be seeking, I had no wish to baulk her. There was still pity in my soul for every living thing, and Bertha was living—was surrounded with possibilities of misery. Just at this time there occurred an event which roused me somewhat from my inertia, and gave me an interest in the passing moment that I had thought impossible for me. It was a visit from Charles Meunier, who had written me word that he was coming to England for relaxation from too strenuous labour, and would like to see me. Meunier had now a European reputation; but his letter to me expressed that keen remembrance of an early regard, an early debt of sympathy, which is inseparable from nobility of character: and I too felt as if his presence would be to me like a transient resurrection into a happier pre-existence. He came, and as far as possible, I renewed our old pleasure of making tête-à-tête excursions, though, instead of mountains and glaciers and the wide blue lake, we had to content ourselves with mere slopes and ponds and artificial plantations. The years had changed us both, but with what different result! Meunier was now a brilliant figure in society, to whom elegant women pretended to listen, and whose acquaintance was boasted of by noblemen ambitious of brains. He repressed with the utmost delicacy all betrayal of the shock which I am sure he must have received from our meeting, or of a desire to penetrate into my condition and circumstances, and sought by the utmost exertion of his charming social powers to make our reunion agreeable. Bertha was much struck by the unexpected fascinations of a visitor whom she had expected to find presentable only on the score of his celebrity, and put forth all her coquetries and accomplishments. Apparently she succeeded in attracting his admiration, for his manner towards her was attentive and flattering. The effect of his presence on me was so benignant, especially in those renewals of our old tête-à-tête wanderings, when he poured forth to me wonderful narratives of his professional experience, that more than once, when his talk turned on the psychological relations of disease, the thought crossed my mind that, if his stay with me were long enough, I might possibly

189TH E LI F TE D VE I L bring myself to tell this man the secrets of my lot. Might there not lie some remedy for me, too, in his science? Might there not at least lie some comprehension and sympathy ready for me in his large and susceptible mind? But the thought only flickered feebly now and then, and died out before it could become a wish. The horror I had of again breaking in on the privacy of another soul, made me, by an irrational instinct, draw the shroud of concealment more closely around my own, as we automatically perform the gesture we feel to be wanting in another. When Meunier’s visit was approaching its conclusion, there happened an event which caused some excitement in our household, owing to the surprisingly strong effect it appeared to produce on Bertha—on Bertha, the self-possessed, who usually seemed inaccessible to feminine agitations, and did even her hate in a self-restrained hygienic manner. This event was the sudden severe illness of her maid, Mrs. Archer. I have reserved to this moment the mention of a circumstance which had forced itself on my notice shortly before Meunier’s arrival, namely, that there had been some quarrel between Bertha and this maid, apparently during a visit to a distant family, in which she had accompanied her mistress. I had overheard Archer speaking in a tone of bitter insolence, which I should have thought an adequate reason for immediate dismissal. No dismissal followed; on the contrary, Bertha seemed to be silently putting up with personal inconveniences from the exhibitions of this woman’s temper. I was the more astonished to observe that her illness seemed a cause of strong solicitude to Bertha; that she was at the bedside night and day, and would allow no one else to officiate as head-nurse. It happened that our family doctor was out on a holiday, an accident which made Meunier’s presence in the house doubly welcome, and he apparently entered into the case with an interest which seemed so much stronger than the ordinary professional feeling, that one day when he had fallen into a long fit of silence after visiting her, I said to him— “Is this a very peculiar case of disease, Meunier?” “No,” he answered, “it is an attack of peritonitis, which will be fatal, but which does not differ physically from many other cases that have come under my observation. But I’ll tell you what I have on my mind. I want to make an experiment on this woman, if you will give me permission. It can do her no harm—will give her no pain—for I shall not make it until life is extinct to all purposes of sensation. I want to try the effect of transfusing blood into her arteries after the heart has ceased to beat for some minutes. I have tried the experiment again and again with animals that have died of this disease, with astounding results, and I want to try it

190 George Eliot on a human subject. I have the small tubes necessary, in a case I have with me, and the rest of the apparatus could be prepared readily. I should use my own blood—take it from my own arm. This woman won’t live through the night, I’m convinced, and I want you to promise me your assistance in making the experiment. I can’t do without another hand, but it would perhaps not be well to call in a medical assistant from among your provincial doctors. A disagreeable foolish version of the thing might get abroad.” “Have you spoken to my wife on the subject?” I said, “because she appears to be peculiarly sensitive about this woman: she has been a favourite maid.” “To tell you the truth,” said Meunier, “I don’t want her to know about it. There are always insuperable difficulties with women in these matters, and the effect on the supposed dead body may be startling. You and I will sit up together, and be in readiness. When certain symptoms appear I shall take you in, and at the right moment we must manage to get every one else out of the room.” I need not give our farther conversation on the subject. He entered very fully into the details, and overcame my repulsion from them, by exciting in me a mingled awe and curiosity concerning the possible results of his experiment. We prepared everything, and he instructed me in my part as assistant. He had not told Bertha of his absolute conviction that Archer would not survive through the night, and endeavoured to persuade her to leave the patient and take a night’s rest. But she was obstinate, suspecting the fact that death was at hand, and supposing that he wished merely to save her nerves. She refused to leave the sick-room. Meunier and I sat up together in the library, he making frequent visits to the sick-room, and returning with the information that the case was taking precisely the course he expected. Once he said to me, “Can you imagine any cause of ill-feeling this woman has against her mistress, who is so devoted to her?” “I think there was some misunderstanding between them before her illness. Why do you ask?” “Because I have observed for the last five or six hours—since, I fancy, she has lost all hope of recovery—there seems a strange prompting in her to say something which pain and failing strength forbid her to utter; and there is a look of hideous meaning in her eyes, which she turns continually towards her mistress. In this disease the mind often remains singularly clear to the last.”

191TH E LI F TE D VE I L “I am not surprised at an indication of malevolent feeling in her,” I said. “She is a woman who has always inspired me with distrust and dislike, but she managed to insinuate herself into her mistress’s favour.” H was silent after this, looking at the fire with an air of absorption, till he went upstairs again. He stayed away longer than usual, and on returning, said to me quietly, “Come now.” I followed him to the chamber where death was hovering. The dark hangings of the large bed made a background that gave a strong relief to Bertha’s pale face as I entered. She started forward as she saw me enter, and then looked at Meunier with an expression of angry inquiry; but he lifted up his hand as if to impose silence, while he fixed his glance on the dying woman and felt her pulse. The face was pinched and ghastly, a cold perspiration was on the forehead, and the eyelids were lowered so as to conceal the large dark eyes. After a minute or two, Meunier walked round to the other side of the bed where Bertha stood, and with his usual air of gentle politeness towards her begged her to leave the patient under our care—everything should be done for her—she was no longer in a state to be conscious of an affectionate presence. Bertha was hesitating, apparently almost willing to believe his assurance and to comply. She looked round at the ghastly dying face, as if to read the confirmation of that assurance, when for a moment the lowered eyelids were raised again, and it seemed as if the eyes were looking towards Bertha, but blankly. A shudder passed through Bertha’s frame, and she returned to her station near the pillow, tacitly implying that she would not leave the room. The eyelids were lifted no more. Once I looked at Bertha as she watched the face of the dying one. She wore a rich peignoir, and her blond hair was half covered by a lace cap: in her attire she was, as always, an elegant woman, fit to figure in a picture of modern aristocratic life: but I asked myself how that face of hers could ever have seemed to me the face of a woman born of woman, with memories of childhood, capable of pain, needing to be fondled? The features at that moment seemed so preternaturally sharp, the eyes were so hard and eager—she looked like a cruel immortal, finding her spiritual feast in the agonies of a dying race. For across those hard features there came something like a flash when the last hour had been breathed out, and we all felt that the dark veil had completely fallen. What secret was there between Bertha and this woman? I turned my eyes from her with a horrible dread lest my insight should return, and I should be obliged to see what had been

192 George Eliot breeding about two unloving women’s hearts. I felt that Bertha had been watching for the moment of death as the sealing of her secret: I thanked Heaven it could remain sealed for me. Meunier said quietly, “She is gone.” He then gave his arm to Bertha, and she submitted to be led out of the room. I suppose it was at her order that two female attendants came into the room, and dismissed the younger one who had been present before. When they entered, Meunier had already opened the artery in the long thin neck that lay rigid on the pillow, and I dismissed them, ordering them to remain at a distance till we rang: the doctor, I said, had an operation to perform—he was not sure about the death. For the next twenty minutes I forgot everything but Meunier and the experiment in which he was so absorbed, that I think his senses would have been closed against all sounds or sights which had no relation to it. It was my task at first to keep up the artificial respiration in the body after the transfusion had been effected, but presently Meunier relieved me, and I could see the wondrous slow return of life; the breast began to heave, the inspirations became stronger, the eyelids quivered, and the soul seemed to have returned beneath them. The artificial respiration was withdrawn: still the breathing continued, and there was a movement of the lips. Just then I heard the handle of the door moving: I suppose Bertha had heard from the women that they had been dismissed: probably a vague fear had arisen in her mind, for she entered with a look of alarm. She came to the foot of the bed and gave a stifled cry. The dead woman’s eyes were wide open, and met hers in full recognition—the recognition of hate. With a sudden strong effort, the hand that Bertha had thought for ever still was pointed towards her, and the haggard face moved. The gasping eager voice said— “You mean to poison your husband . . . the poison is in the black cabinet . . . I got it for you . . . you laughed at me, and told lies about me behind my back, to make me disgusting . . . because you were jealous . . . are you sorry . . . now?” The lips continued to murmur, but the sounds were no longer distinct. Soon there was no sound—only a slight movement: the flame had leaped out, and was being extinguished the faster. The wretched woman’s heart- strings had been set to hatred and vengeance; the spirit of life had swept the chords for an instant, and was gone again for ever. Great God! Is this what it is to live again . . . to wake up with our unstilled thirst upon us, with our unuttered curses rising to our lips, with our muscles ready to act out their half-committed sins?

193TH E LI F TE D VE I L Bertha stood pale at the foot of the bed, quivering and helpless, despairing of devices, like a cunning animal whose hiding-places are surrounded by swift-advancing flame. Even Meunier looked paralysed; life for that moment ceased to be a scientific problem to him. As for me, this scene seemed of one texture with the rest of my existence: horror was my familiar, and this new revelation was only like an old pain recurring with new circumstances. Since then Bertha and I have lived apart—she in her own neighbourhood, the mistress of half our wealth, I as a wanderer in foreign countries, until I came to this Devonshire nest to die. Bertha lives pitied and admired; for what had I against that charming woman, whom every one but myself could have been happy with? There had been no witness of the scene in the dying room except Meunier, and while Meunier lived his lips were sealed by a promise to me. Once or twice, weary of wandering, I rested in a favourite spot, and my heart went out towards the men and women and children whose faces were becoming familiar to me; but I was driven away again in terror at the approach of my old insight—driven away to live continually with the one Unknown Presence revealed and yet hidden by the moving curtain of the earth and sky. Till at last disease took hold of me and forced me to rest here—forced me to live in dependence on my servants. And then the curse of insight—of my double consciousness, came again, and has never left me. I know all their narrow thoughts, their feeble regard, their half-wearied pity. It is the 20th of September, 1850. I know these figures I have just written, as if they were a long familiar inscription. I have seen them on this page in my desk unnumbered times, when the scene of my dying struggle has opened upon me. . . .

194 Lucius Apuleius fl. 2nd century A.D. Let me,” he wrote, “briefly introduce myself as Lucius Apuleius,a native of Madaura in North Africa, but of ancient Greek stock.” Born early in the second century, he claimed Plutarch as one of his real or imaginary ancestors. On the death of his father, a provincial magistrate, he and his brother between them inherited two million sesterces (nearly $100,000). Lucius went to school at the university in Carthage and later studied Platonic philosophy in Athens. At Corinth he was admitted into the religious cult of Isis. After studying rhetoric in Rome, he practiced at the Roman bar. On his travels in Egypt and Asia Minor, where he devoted himself to religion and philosophy, he fell sick near Alexandria and was nursed by Sicinius Pontianus, a schoolmate from Athens. Later he married Pontianus’ mother. But when she made over her large fortune to him, and Pontianus died soon after, her family charged that he had poisoned his friend and worked magic on his wife. Apuleius’ defense before the proconsul Claudius Maximus—it was called Apologia or De Magia (Of Magic)—remains our chief source for his life. He was found not guilty. His most famous work, The Metamorphoses of Lucius Apuleius of Madaura, is also the earliest complete Latin novel that we have. This is the story of how Lucius was turned into an ass, his adventures in that state, and how he was brought back to manhood by the goddess Isis. It is traditionally known as The Golden Ass, evidently because Apuleius wrote it in a literary style adapted from the pitchman’s lingo of the market-place storytellers. Thus “golden” is carnival talk for “wonderful” or “marvelous.” Robert Graves says that although Apuleius probably knew witch- craft, it was “the ‘right-hand’ or beneficent magic” pertaining to the

195Lucius Apuleius goddesses Isis and Demeter. He seems to have been a priest of Isis and Osiris, and of the god of medicine, Aesculapius. He wrote histories and poems now lost. Cupid and Psyche” is a story from The Golden Ass, and one of the great stories of the world. Though Graves writes that the plot “is still widely current as a primitive folk-tale in countries as far apart as Scotland and Hindustan,” it is not found among the Greek myths. It has been a favorite in English, redone by William Morris in The Earthly Paradise, by Robert Bridges, and by Walter Pater in Marius the Epicurean. We read it here in Pater’s lordly translation. A love story? If we call it that we are almost guilty of punning. Its hero is Love himself, Cupid, the god of love, still “fairest among the deathless gods,” as Hesiod described him. Psyche’s name is a common Greek noun, used as early as Homer to mean “breath” or “life” or “spirit,” and later by Plato in the sense of “soul.” The story has been called “a neat philosophical allegory of the progress of the rational soul towards intellectual love.” No doubt it can be read in that light. Apuleius, as we know, was a student of Plato and probably had some such double meaning in mind. But we need to ask first what the story is about. Who is Psyche? She is a beautiful young girl in a fix. No storyteller could imagine a better opening than that. Moreover, she is a king’s daughter, to whom the best things of this world are promised. Instead, she suffers the cruelest injustice. Because of her beauty, which is not her fault, no one will marry her; and for the same reason she incurs the anger of Venus. She is Cinderella in reverse, she is too beautiful; and like Cinderella she has two wicked older sisters who hate her. What else do we see? Is Venus the cruel stepmother or mother- in-law of the fairy tales? Perhaps. Psyche is told that her lover is a dreadful serpent who will devour her and her child. We recognize that serpent. He comes out of the unconscious: a feminine or Freudian image of the terror of love. He was also, for the Greeks, a death image. Psyche has resolved to kill this monster who loves her, whose child she bears. But she must see him first. Her curiosity defies the forbidden, as Pandora and Bluebeard’s wives defied it. Psyche does it a second time, in opening Persephone’s box. This time she falls into “the sleep of the dead”—or dies, in one version of the story— from which she must be rescued by Cupid.

196 Lucius Apuleius We notice that the viewpoint shifts between Venus, Psyche, and her sisters. We get no glimpse of the story through male eyes. Its logic, its way of feeling, are purely feminine. Psyche’s father, Jupiter, and even Cupid are mere agents. Cupid, undependable male that he is, first ignores his mother’s errand and then flies off in a huff when Psyche burns him. For a god of love, he shows little understanding of women. We see finally why all this might be so. “Cupid and Psyche” is a young girl’s fantasy, beautifully done, and true in any country or time. This is how she daydreams about the delights and terrors of being beautiful and wronged; of a husband who is rich and a god; of a mother-in-law who is a powerful rival; of marrying, and bearing a child, and finding the immortality of happiness. “Now read on,” said Apuleius, “and enjoy yourself!”

197 Cupid and Psyche from The Golden Ass n a certain city lived a king and queen who had three daughters exceeding fair. But the beauty of the elder sisters, though pleasant to behold, yet passed not the measure of human praise, while such was the loveliness of the youngest that men’s speech was too poor to commend it worthily and could express it not at all. Many of the citizens and of strangers, whom the fame of this excellent vision had gathered thither, confounded by that matchless beauty, could but kiss the finger-tips of their right hands at sight of her, as in adoration to the goddess Venus herself. And soon a rumour passed through the country that she whom the blue deep had borne, forbearing her divine dignity, was even then moving among men, or that by some fresh germination from the stars, not the sea now, but the earth, had put forth a new Venus, endued with the flower of virginity. This belief, with the fame of the maiden’s loveliness, went daily farther into distant lands, so that many people were drawn together to behold that glorious model of the age. Men sailed no longer to Paphos, to Cnidus or Cythera, to the presence of the goddess Venus: her sacred rites were neglected, her images stood uncrowned, the cold ashes were left to disfigure her forsaken altars. It was to a maiden that men’s prayers were offered, to a human countenance they looked, in propitiating so great a godhead: when the girl went forth in the morning they strewed flowers on her way, and the victims proper to that unseen goddess were presented as she passed along. This conveyance of divine worship to a mortal kindled meantime the anger of the true Venus. “Lo! now, the ancient parent of nature,” she cried, “the fountain of all elements! Behold me, Venus, benign mother of the world, sharing my honours with a mortal maiden, while my name, built up in heaven, is profaned by the mean things of earth! Shall a perishable woman bear my image about with her?

198 Lucius Apuleius In vain did the shepherd of Ida prefer me! Yet shall she have little joy, whosoever she be, of her usurped and unlawful loveliness!” Thereupon she called to her that winged, bold boy, of evil ways, who wanders armed by night through men’s houses, spoiling their marriages; and stirring yet more by her speech his inborn wantonness, she led him to the city, and showed him Psyche as she walked. “I pray thee,” she said, “give thy mother a full revenge. Let this maid become the slave of an unworthy love.” Then, embracing him closely, she departed to the shore and took her throne upon the crest of the wave. And lo! at her unuttered will, her ocean servants are in waiting: the daughters of Nereus are there singing their song, and Portunus, and Salacia, and the tiny charioteer of the dolphin, with a host of Tritons leaping through the billows. And one blows softly through his sounding sea-shell, another spreads a silken web against the sun, a third presents the mirror to the eyes of his mistress, while the others swim side by side below, drawing her chariot. Such was the escort of Venus as she went upon the sea. Psyche meantime, aware of her loveliness, had no fruit thereof. All people regarded and admired, but none sought her in marriage. It was but as on the finished work of the craftsman that they gazed upon that divine likeness. Her sisters, less fair than she, were happily wedded. She, even as a widow, sitting at home, wept over her desolation, hating in her heart the beauty in which all men were pleased. And the king, supposing the gods were angry, inquired of the oracle of Apollo, and Apollo answered him thus: “Let the damsel be placed on the top of a certain mountain, adorned as for the bed of marriage and of death. Look not for a son-in-law of mortal birth; but for that evil serpent thing, by reason of whom even the gods tremble and the shadows of Styx are afraid.” So the king returned home and made known the oracle to his wife. For many days she lamented, but at last the fulfilment of the divine precept is urgent upon her, and the company make ready to conduct the maiden to her deadly bridal. And now the nuptial torch gathers dark smoke and ashes; the pleasant sound of the pipe is changed into a cry; the marriage hymn concludes in a sorrowful wailing; below her yellow wedding veil the bride shook away her tears; insomuch that the whole city was afflicted together at the ill luck of the stricken house. But the mandate of the god impelled the hapless Psyche to her fate, and, these solemnities being ended, the funeral of the living soul goes forth, all the people following. Psyche, bitterly weeping, assists not at her

199CU PI D AN D PSYCH E marriage but at her own obsequies, and while the parents hesitate to accomplish a thing so unholy the daughter cries to them: “Wherefore torment your luckless age by long weeping? This was the prize of my extraordinary beauty! When all people celebrated us with divine honours, and in one voice named the New Venus, it was then ye should have wept for me as one dead. Now at last I understand that that one name of Venus has been my ruin. Lead me and set me upon the appointed place. I am in haste to submit to that well-omened marriage, to behold that goodly spouse. Why delay the coming of him who was born for the destruction of the whole world?” She was silent, and with firm step went on the way. And they proceeded to the appointed place on a steep mountain, and left there the maiden alone, and took their way homewards dejectedly. The wretched parents, in their close-shut house, yielded themselves to perpetual night; while to Psyche, fearful and trembling and weeping sore upon the mountain top, comes the gentle Zephyrus. He lifts her mildly, and, with vesture afloat on either side, bears her by his own soft breathing over the windings of the hills, and sets her lightly among the flowers in the bosom of a valley below. Psyche, in those delicate grassy places, lying sweetly on her dewy bed, rested from the agitation of her soul and arose in peace. And lo! a grove of mighty trees, with a fount of water, clear as glass, in the midst; and hard by the water, a dwelling-place, built not by human hands but by some divine cunning. One recognized, even at the entering, the delightful hostelry of a god. Golden pillars sustained the roof, arched most curiously in cedar-wood and ivory. The walls were hidden under wrought silver: all tame and woodland creatures leaping forward to the visitor’s gaze. Wonderful indeed was the craftsman, divine or half-divine, who by the subtlety of his art had breathed so wild a soul into the silver! The very pavement was distinct with pictures in goodly stones. In the glow of its precious metal the house is its own daylight, having no need of the sun. Well might it seem a place fashioned for the conversation of gods with men! Psyche, drawn forward by the delight of it, came near, and, her courage growing, stood within the doorway. One by one, she admired the beauti- ful things she saw; and, most wonderful of all! no lock, no chain, nor living guardian protected that great treasure house. But as she gazed, there came a voice—a voice, as it were unclothed of bodily vesture— “Mistress!” it said, “all these things are thine. Lie down, and relieve thy weariness, and rise again for the bath when thou wilt. We thy servants,

200 Lucius Apuleius whose voice thou hearest, will be beforehand with our service, and a royal feast shall be ready.” And Psyche understood that some divine care was providing, and, refreshed with sleep and the bath, sat down to the feast. Still she saw no one: only she heard words falling here and there, and had voices alone to serve her. And the feast being ended, one entered the chamber and sang to her unseen, while another struck the chords of a harp, invisible with him who played on it. Afterwards the sound of a company singing together came to her, but still so that none was present to sight; yet it appeared that a great multitude of singers was there. And the hour of evening inviting her, she climbed into the bed; and as the night was far advanced, behold a sound of a certain clemency approaches her. Then, fearing for her maidenhood in so great solitude, she trembled, and more than any evil she knew dreaded that she knew not. And now the husband, that unknown husband, drew near, and ascended the couch, and made her his wife; and lo! before the rise of dawn he had departed hastily. And the attendant voices ministered to the needs of the newly married. And so it happened with her for a long season. And as nature has willed, this new thing, by continual use, became a delight to her: the sound of the voice grew to be her solace in that condition of loneliness and uncertainty. One night the bridegroom spoke thus to his beloved: “O Psyche, most pleasant bride! Fortune is grown stern with us, and threatens thee with mortal peril. Thy sisters, troubled at the report of thy death and seeking some trace of thee, will come to the mountain’s top. But if by chance their cries reach thee, answer not, neither look forth at all, lest thou bring sorrow upon me and destruction upon thyself.” Then Psyche promised that she would do according to his will. But the bridegroom was fled away again with the night. And all that day she spent in tears, repeating that she was now dead indeed, shut up in that golden prison, powerless to console her sisters sorrowing after her, or to see their faces; and so went to rest weeping. And after a while came the bridegroom again, and lay down beside her, and embracing her as she wept, complained: “Was this thy promise, my Psyche? What have I to hope from thee? Even in the arms of thy husband thou ceasest not from pain. Do now as thou wilt. Indulge thine own desire, though it seeks what will ruin thee. Yet wilt thou remember my warning, repentant too late.” Then, protesting that she is like to die, she obtains from him that he suffer her to see her sisters, and present to them moreover what gifts she would of golden ornaments; but therewith he

201CU PI D AN D PSYCH E oft-times advised her never at any time, yielding to pernicious counsel, to inquire concerning his bodily form, lest she fall, through unholy curiosity, from so great a height of fortune, nor feel ever his embrace again. “I would die a hundred times,” she said, cheerful at last, “rather than be deprived of thy most sweet usage. I love thee as my own soul, beyond comparison even with Love himself. Only bid thy servant Zephyrus bring hither my sisters, as he brought me. My honeycomb! My husband! Thy Psyche’s breath of life!” So he promised; and after the embraces of the night, ere the light appeared, vanished from the hands of his bride. And the sisters, coming to the place where Psyche was abandoned, wept loudly among the rocks, and called upon her by name, so that the sound came down to her, and running out of the palace distraught, she cried: “Wherefore afflict your souls with lamentation? I whom you mourn am here.” Then, summoning Zephyrus, she reminded him of her husband’s bidding; and he bare them down with a gentle blast. “Enter now,” she said, “into my house, and relieve your sorrow in the company of Psyche your sister.” And Psyche displayed to them all the treasures of the golden house, and its great family of ministering voices, nursing in them the malice which was already at their hearts. And at last one of them asks curiously who the lord of that celestial array may be, and what manner of man her husband. And Psyche answered dissemblingly: “A young man, handsome and mannerly, with a goodly beard. For the most part he hunts upon the mountains.” And lest the secret should slip from her in the way of further speech, loading her sisters with gold and gems, she commanded Zephyrus to bear them away. And they returned home, on fire with envy. “See now the injustice of fortune!” cried one. “We, the elder children, are given like servants to be the wives of strangers, while the youngest is possessed of so great riches, who scarcely knows how to use them. You saw, sister! what a hoard of wealth lies in the house; what glittering gowns; what splendour of precious gems, besides all that gold trodden under foot. If she indeed hath, as she said, a bridegroom so goodly, then no one in all the world is happier. And it may be that this husband, being of divine nature, will make her too a goddess. Nay! so in truth it is. It was even thus she bore herself. Already she looks aloft and breathes divinity, who, though but a woman, has voices for her handmaidens, and can command the winds.” “Think,” answered the other, “how arrogantly she dealt with us, grudging us these trifling gifts out of all that store, and when our company became a burden, causing us to be hissed and driven away from her through the

202 Lucius Apuleius air! But I am no woman if she keep her hold on this great fortune; and if the insult done us has touched thee too, take we counsel together. Meanwhile let us hold our peace, and know naught of her, alive or dead. For they are not truly happy of whose happiness other folk are unaware.” And the bridegroom, whom still she knows not, warns her thus a second time, as he talks with her by night: “Seest thou what peril besets thee? Those cunning wolves have made ready for thee their snares, of which the sum is that they persuade thee to search into the fashion of my countenance, the seeing of which, as I have told thee often, will be the seeing of it no more for ever. But do thou neither listen nor make answer to aught regarding thy husband. Besides, we have sown also the seed of our race. Even now this bosom grows with a child to be born to us, a child, if thou but keep our secret, of divine quality; if thou profane it, subject to death.” And Psyche was glad at the tidings, rejoicing in that solace of a divine seed, and in the glory of that pledge of love to be, and the dignity of the name of mother. Anxiously she notes the increase of the days, the waning months. And again, as he tarries briefly beside her, the bridegroom repeats his warning: “Even now the sword is drawn with which thy sisters seek thy life. Have pity on thyself, sweet wife, and upon our child, and see not those evil women again.” But the sisters make their way into the palace once more, crying to her in wily tones: “O Psyche! and thou too wilt be a mother! How great will be the joy at home! Happy indeed shall we be to have the nursing of the golden child. Truly if he be answerable to the beauty of his parents, it will be a birth of Cupid himself.” So, little by little, they stole upon the heart of their sister. She, meanwhile, bids the lyre to sound for their delight, and the playing is heard: she bids the pipes to move, the choir to sing, and the music and the singing come invisibly, soothing the mind of the listener with sweetest modulation. Yet not even thereby was their malice put to sleep: once more they seek to know what manner of husband she has, and whence that seed. And Psyche, simple overmuch, forgetful of her first story, answers: “My husband comes from a far country, trading for great sums. He is already of middle age, with whitening locks.” And therewith she dismisses them again. And returning home upon the soft breath of Zephyrus, one cried to the other: “What shall be said of so ugly a lie? He who was a young man with goodly beard is now in middle life. It must be that she told a false tale: else is she in very truth ignorant what manner of man he is. Howsoever it be, let us destroy her quickly. For if she indeed knows not, be sure that

203CU PI D AN D PSYCH E her bridegroom is one of the gods: it is a god she bears in her womb. And let that be far from us! If she be called mother of a god, then will life be more than I can bear.” So, full of rage against her, they returned to Psyche, and said to her craftily: “Thou livest in an ignorant bliss, all incurious of thy real danger. It is a deadly serpent, as we certainly know, that comes to sleep at thy side. Remember the words of the oracle, which declared thee destined to a cruel beast. There are those who have seen it at nightfall, coming back from its feeding. In no long time, they say, it will end its blandishments. It but waits for the babe to be formed in thee, that it may devour thee by so much the richer. If indeed the solitude of this musical place, or it may be the loathsome commerce of a hidden love, delight thee, we at least in sisterly piety have done our part.” And at last the unhappy Psyche, simple and frail of soul, carried away by the terror of their words, losing memory of her husband’s precepts and her own promise, brought upon herself a great calamity. Trembling and turning pale, she answers them: “And they who tell those things, it may be, speak the truth. For in very deed never have I seen the face of my husband, nor know I at all what manner of man he is. Always he frights me diligently from the sight of him, threatening some great evil should I too curiously look upon his face. Do ye, if ye can help your sister in her great peril, stand by her now.” Her sisters answered her: “The way of safety we have well considered, and will teach thee. Take a sharp knife, and hide it in that part of the couch where thou art wont to lie; take also a lamp filled with oil, and set it privily behind the curtain. And when he shall have drawn up his coils into the accustomed place, and thou hearest him breathe in sleep, slip then from his side and discover the lamp, and, knife in hand, put forth thy strength, and strike off the serpent’s head.” And so they departed in haste. And Psyche left alone (alone but for the furies which beset her) is tossed up and down in her distress, like a wave of the sea; and though her will is firm, yet, in the moment of putting hand to the deed, she falters, and is torn asunder by various apprehensions of the great calamity upon her. She hastens and anon delays, now full of distrust, and now of angry courage: under one bodily form she loathes the monster and loves the bridegroom. But twilight ushers in the night; and at length in haste she makes ready for the terrible deed. Darkness came, and the bridegroom; and he first, after some faint essay of love, falls into a deep sleep. And she, erewhile of no strength, the hard purpose of destiny assisting her, is confirmed in force. With lamp plucked forth, knife in hand, she put

204 Lucius Apuleius by her sex; and lo! as the secrets of the bed became manifest, the sweetest and most gentle of all creatures, Love himself, reclined there, in his own proper loveliness! At sight of him the very flame of the lamp kindled more gladly! But Psyche was afraid at the vision, and, faint of soul, trembled back upon her knees, and would have hidden the steel in her own bosom. But the knife slipped from her hand; and now, undone, yet ofttimes looking upon the beauty of that divine countenance, she lives again. She sees the locks of that golden head, pleasant with the unction of the gods, shed down in graceful entanglement behind and before, about the ruddy cheeks and white throat. The pinions of the winged god, yet fresh with the dew, are spotless upon his shoulders, the delicate plumage wavering over them as they lie at rest. Smooth he was, and, touched with light, worthy of Venus his mother. At the foot of the couch lay his bow and arrows, the instruments of his power, propitious to men. And Psyche, gazing hungrily thereon, draws an arrow from the quiver, and trying the point upon her thumb, tremulous still, drove in the barb, so that a drop of blood came forth. Thus fell she, by her own act, and unaware, into the love of Love. Falling upon the bridegroom, with indrawn breath, in a hurry of kisses from eager and open lips, she shuddered as she thought how brief that sleep might be. And it chanced that a drop of burning oil fell from the lamp upon the god’s shoulder. Ah! maladroit minister of love, thus to wound him from whom all fire comes; though ’twas a lover, I trow, first devised thee, to have the fruit of his desire even in the darkness! At the touch of the fire the god started up, and beholding the overthrow of her faith, quietly took flight from her embraces. And Psyche, as he rose upon the wing, laid hold on him with her two hands, hanging upon him in his passage through the air, till she sinks to the earth through weariness. And as she lay there, the divine lover, tarrying still, lighted upon a cypress tree which grew near, and, from the top of it, spake thus to her, in great emotion: “Foolish one! unmindful of the command of Venus, my mother, who had devoted thee to one of base degree, I fled to thee in his stead. Now know I that this was vainly done. Into mine own flesh pierced mine arrow, and I made thee my wife, only that I might seem a monster beside thee—that thou shouldst seek to wound the head wherein lay the eyes so full of love to thee! Again and again, I thought to put thee on thy guard concerning these things, and warned thee in lovingkindness. Now I would but punish thee by my flight hence.” And therewith he winged his way into the deep sky. Psyche, prostrate upon the earth, and following far as sight might reach the flight of the bridegroom, wept and lamented; and when the breadth

205CU PI D AN D PSYCH E of space had parted him wholly from her, cast herself down from the bank of a river which was nigh. But the stream, turning gentle in honour of the god, put her forth again unhurt upon its margin. And as it happened, Pan, the rustic god, was sitting just then by the waterside, embracing, in the body of a reed, the goddess Canna, teaching her to respond to him in all varieties of slender sound. Hard by, his flock of goats browsed at will. And the shaggy god called her, wounded and outworn, kindly to him and said: “I am but a rustic herdsman, pretty maiden, yet wise, by favour of my great age and long experience; and if I guess truly by those faltering steps, by thy sorrowful eyes and continual sighing, thou labourest with excess of love. Listen then to me, and seek not death again, in the stream or otherwise. Put aside thy woe, and turn thy prayers to Cupid. He is in truth a delicate youth: win him by the delicacy of thy service.” So the shepherd god spoke, and Psyche, answering nothing, but with a reverence to his serviceable deity, went on her way. And while she, in her search after Cupid, wandered through many lands, he was lying in the chamber of his mother, heartsick. And the white bird which floats over the waves plunged in haste into the sea, and approaching Venus, as she bathed, made known to her that her son lies afflicted with some grievous hurt, doubtful of life. And Venus cried angrily: “My son, then, has a mistress! And it is Psyche, who witched away my beauty and was the rival of my godhead, whom he loves!” Therewith she issued from the sea, and returning to her golden chamber, found there the lad, sick, as she had heard, and cried from the doorway: “Well done, truly! to trample thy mother’s precepts under foot, to spare my enemy that cross of an unworthy love; nay, unite her to thyself, child as thou art, that I might have a daughter-in-law who hates me! I will make thee repent of thy sport, and the savour of thy marriage bitter. There is one who shall chasten this body of thine, put out thy torch, and unstring thy bow. Not till she has plucked forth that hair, into which so oft these hands have smoothed the golden light, and sheared away thy wings, shall I feel the injury done me avenged.” And with this she hastened in anger from the doors. And Ceres and Juno met her, and sought to know the meaning of her troubled countenance. “Ye come in season,” she cried; “I pray you, find for me Psyche. It must needs be that ye have heard the disgrace of my house.” And they, ignorant of what was done, would have soothed her anger, saying: “What fault, Mistress, hath thy son committed, that thou wouldst destroy the girl he loves? Knowest thou not that he is now of age? Because he wears his years so lightly must he seem to thee ever but a

206 Lucius Apuleius child? Wilt thou for ever thus pry into the pastimes of thy son, always accusing his wantonness, and blaming in him those delicate wiles which are all thine own?” Thus, in secret fear of the boy’s bow, did they seek to please him with their gracious patronage. But Venus, angry at their light taking of her wrongs, turned her back upon them, and with hasty steps made her way once more to the sea. Meanwhile Psyche, tost in soul, wandering hither and thither, rested not night or day in the pursuit of her husband, desiring, if she might not soothe his anger by the endearments of a wife, at the least to propitiate him with the prayers of a handmaid. And seeing a certain temple on the top of a high mountain, she said: “Who knows whether yonder place be not the abode of my lord?” Thither, therefore, she turned her steps, hastening now the more because desire and hope pressed her on, weary as she was with the labours of the way, and so, painfully measuring out the highest ridges of the mountain, drew near to the sacred couches. She sees ears of wheat, in heaps or twisted into chaplets; ears of barley also, with sickles and all the instruments of harvest, lying there in disorder, thrown at random from the hands of the labourers in the great heat. These she curiously sets apart, one by one, duly ordering them; for she said within herself: “I may not neglect the shrines, nor the holy service, of any god there be, but must rather win by supplication the kindly mercy of them all.” And Ceres found her bending sadly upon her task, and cried aloud: “Alas, Psyche! Venus, in the furiousness of her anger, tracks thy footsteps through the world, seeking for thee to pay her the utmost penalty; and thou, thinking of anything rather than thine own safety, hast taken on thee the care of what belongs to me!” Then Psyche fell down at her feet, and sweeping the floor with her hair, washing the footsteps of the goddess in her tears, besought her mercy, with many prayers: “By the gladdening rites of harvest, by the lighted lamps and mystic marches of the marriage and mysterious invention of thy daughter Proserpine, and by all beside that the holy place of Attica veils in silence, minister, I pray thee, to the sorrowful heart of Psyche! Suffer me to hide myself but for a few days among the heaps of corn, till time has softened the anger of the goddess, and my strength, outworn in my long travail, is recovered by a little rest.” But Ceres answered her: “Truly thy tears move me, and I would fain help thee; only I dare not incur the ill will of my kinswoman. Depart hence as quickly as may be.” And Psyche, repelled against hope, afflicted now with twofold sorrow, making her way back again, beheld among the

207CU PI D AN D PSYCH E half-lighted woods of the valley below a sanctuary builded with cunning art. And that she might lose no way of hope, howsoever doubtful, she drew near to the sacred doors. She sees there gifts of price, and garments fixed upon the door-posts and to the branches of the trees, wrought with letters of gold which told the name of the goddess to whom they were dedicated, with thanksgiving for that she had done. So, with bent knee and hands laid about the glowing altar, she prayed, saying: “Sister and spouse of Jupiter! be thou to these my desperate fortunes, Juno the Auspicious! I know that thou dost willingly help those in travail with child; deliver me from the peril that is upon me.” And as she prayed thus, Juno in the majesty of her godhead was straightway present, and answered: “Would that I might incline favourably to thee; but against the will of Venus, whom I have ever loved as a daughter, I may not, for very shame, grant thy prayer.” And Psyche, dismayed by this new shipwreck of her hope, communed thus with herself: “Whither, from the midst of the snares that beset me, shall I take my way once more? In what dark solitude shall I hide me from the all-seeing eye of Venus? What if I put on at length a man’s courage, and yielding myself unto her as my mistress, soften by a humility not yet too late the fierceness of her purpose? Who knows but that I may find him also whom my soul seeketh after, in the abode of his mother?” And Venus, renouncing all earthly aid in her search, prepared to return to heaven. She ordered the chariot to be made ready, wrought for her by Vulcan as a marriage gift, with a cunning of hand which had left his work so much the richer by the weight of gold it lost under his tool. From the multitude which housed about the bedchamber of their mistress, white doves came forth, and with joyful motions bent their painted necks beneath the yoke. Behind it, with playful riot, the sparrows sped onward, and other birds sweet of song, making known by their soft notes the approach of the goddess. Eagle and cruel hawk alarmed not the quireful family of Venus. And the clouds broke away, as the uttermost ether opened to receive her, daughter and goddess, with great joy. And Venus passed straightway to the house of Jupiter to beg from him the service of Mercury, the god of speech. And Jupiter refused not her prayer. And Venus and Mercury descended from heaven together; and as they went, the former said to the latter: “Thou knowest, my brother of Arcady, that never at any time have I done anything without thy help; for how long time, moreover, I have sought a certain maiden in vain. And now naught remains but that, by thy heraldry, I proclaim a reward for

208 Lucius Apuleius whomsoever shall find her. Do thou my bidding quickly.” And therewith she conveyed to him a little scrip, in the which was written the name of Psyche, with other things; and so returned home. And Mercury failed not in his office; but departing into all lands, proclaimed that whosoever delivered up to Venus the fugitive girl, should receive from herself seven kisses—one thereof full of the inmost honey of her throat. With that the doubt of Psyche was ended. And now, as she came near to the doors of Venus, one of the household, whose name was Use-and-Wont, ran out to her, crying: “Hast thou learned, Wicked Maid! now at last! that thou hast a mistress?” and seizing her roughly by the hair, drew her into the presence of Venus. And when Venus saw her, she cried out, saying: “Thou has deigned then to make thy salutations to thy mother-in-law. Now will I in turn treat thee as becometh a dutiful daughter-in-law!” And she took barley and millet and poppy-seed, every kind of grain and seed, and mixed them together, and laughed, and said to her: “Me- thinks so plain a maiden can earn lovers only by industrious ministry: now will I also make trial of thy service. Sort me this heap of seed, the one kind from the others, grain by grain; and get thy task done before the evening.” And Psyche, stunned by the cruelty of her bidding, was silent, and moved not her hand to the inextricable heap. And there came forth a little ant, which had understanding of the difficulty of her task, and took pity upon the consort of the god of Love; and he ran deftly hither and thither, and called together the whole army of his fellows. “Have pity,” he cried, “nimble scholars of the Earth, Mother of all things!—have pity upon the wife of Love, and hasten to help her in her perilous effort.” Then, one upon the other, the hosts of the insect people hurried together; and they sorted asunder the whole heap of seed, separating every grain after its kind, and so departed quickly out of sight. And at nightfall Venus returned, and seeing that task finished with so wonderful diligence, she cried: “The work is not thine, thou naughty maid, but his in whose eyes thou hast found favour.” And calling her again in the morning: “See now the grove,” she said, “beyond yonder torrent. Certain sheep feed there, whose fleeces shine with gold. Fetch me straightway a lock of that precious stuff, having gotten it as thou mayst.” And Psyche went forth willingly, not to obey the command of Venus, but even to seek a rest from her labour in the depths of the river. But from the river, the green reed, lowly mother of music, spake to her: “O Psyche! pollute not these waters by self-destruction, nor approach that terrible flock; for, as the heat groweth, they wax fierce. Lie down under

209CU PI D AN D PSYCH E yon plane-tree, till the quiet of the river’s breath has soothed them. Thereafter thou mayst shake down the fleecy gold from the trees of the grove, for it holdeth by the leaves.” And Psyche, instructed thus by the simple reed, in the humanity of its heart, filled her bosom with the soft golden stuff, and returned to Venus. But the goddess smiled bitterly, and said to her: “Well know I who was the author of this thing also. I will make further trial of thy discretion, and the boldness of thy heart. Seest thou the utmost peak of yonder steep mountain? The dark stream which flows down thence waters the Stygian fields, and swells the flood of Cocytus. Bring me now, in this little urn, a draught from its innermost source.” And therewith she put into her hands a vessel of wrought crystal. And Psyche set forth in haste on her way to the mountain, looking there at last to find the end of her hapless life. But when she came to the region which borders on the cliff that was showed to her, she understood the deadly nature of her task. From a great rock, steep and slippery, a horrible river of water poured forth, falling straightway by a channel exceeding narrow into the unseen gulf below. And lo! creeping from the rocks on either hand, angry serpents, with their long necks and sleepless eyes. The very waters found a voice and bade her depart, in smothered cries of, “Depart hence!” and “What doest thou here?” “Look around thee!” and “Destruction is upon thee!” And then sense left her, in the immensity of her peril, as one changed to stone. Yet not even then did the distress of this innocent soul escape the steady eye of a gentle providence. For the bird of Jupiter spread his wings and took flight to her, and asked her: “Didst thou think, simple one, even thou! that thou couldst steal one drop of that relentless stream, the holy river of Styx, terrible even to the gods? But give me thine urn.” And the bird took the urn, and filled it at the source, and returned to her quickly from among the teeth of the serpents, bringing with him of the waters, all unwilling—nay! warning him to depart away and not molest them. And she, receiving the urn with great joy, ran back quickly that she might deliver it to Venus, and yet again satisfied not the angry goddess. “My child!” she said, “in this one thing further must thou serve me. Take now this tiny casket, and get thee down even unto hell, and deliver it to Proserpine. Tell her that Venus would have of her beauty so much at least as may suffice for but one day’s use, that beauty she possessed erewhile being foreworn and spoiled, through her tendance upon the sickbed of her son; and be not slow in returning.” And Psyche perceived there the last ebbing of her fortune—that she

210 Lucius Apuleius was now thrust openly upon death, who must go down, of her own motion, to Hades and the Shades. And straightway she climbed to the top of an exceeding high tower, thinking within herself: “I will cast myself down thence: so shall I descend most quickly into the kingdom of the dead.” And the tower, again, broke forth into speech: “Wretched Maid! Wretched Maid! Wilt thou destroy thyself? If the breath quit thy body, then wilt thou indeed go down into Hades, but by no means return hither. Listen to me. Among the pathless wilds not far from this place lies a certain mountain, and therein one of hell’s vent-holes. Through the breach a rough way lies open, following which thou wilt come, by straight course, to the castle of Orcus. And thou must not go empty-handed. Take in each hand a morsel of barley-bread, soaked in hydromel; and in thy mouth two pieces of money. And when thou shalt be now well onward in the way of death, then wilt thou overtake a lame ass laden with wood, and a lame driver, who will pray thee reach him certain cords to fasten the burden which is falling from the ass: but be thou cautious to pass on in silence. And soon as thou comest to the river of the dead, Charon, in that crazy bark he hath, will put thee over upon the farther side. There is greed even among the dead: and thou shalt deliver to him, for the ferrying, one of those two pieces of money, in such wise that he take it with his hand from between thy lips. And as thou passest over the stream, a dead old man, rising on the water, will put up to thee his mouldering hands, and pray thee draw him into the ferry-boat. But beware thou yield not to unlawful pity. “When thou shalt be come over, and art upon the causeway, certain aged women, spinning, will cry to thee to lend thy hand to their work; and beware again that thou take no part therein; for this also is the snare of Venus, whereby she would cause thee to cast away one at least of those cakes thou bearest in thy hands. And think not that a slight matter; for the loss of either one of them will be to thee the losing of the light of day. For a watch-dog exceeding fierce lies ever before the threshold of that lonely house of Proserpine. Close his mouth with one of thy cakes; so shalt thou pass by him, and enter straightway into the presence of Proserpine herself. Then do thou deliver thy message, and taking what she shall give thee, return back again; offering to the watch-dog the other cake, and to the ferryman that other piece of money thou hast in thy mouth. After this manner mayst thou return again beneath the stars. But withal, I charge thee, think not to look into, nor open, the casket thou bearest, with that treasure of the beauty of the divine countenance hidden therein.” So spake the stones of the tower; and Psyche delayed not, but proceed-

211CU PI D AN D PSYCH E ing diligently after the manner enjoined, entered into the house of Proserpine, at whose feet she sat down humbly, and would neither the delicate couch nor that divine food the goddess offered her, but did straightway the business of Venus. And Proserpine filled the casket secretly, and shut the lid, and delivered it to Psyche, who fled therewith from Hades with new strength. But coming back into the light of day, even as she hasted now to the ending of her service, she was seized by a rash curiosity. “Lo! now,” she said within herself, “my simpleness! who, bearing in my hands the divine loveliness, heed not to touch myself with a particle at least therefrom, that I may please the more, by the favour of it, my fair one, my beloved.” Even as she spoke, she lifted the lid; and behold! within, neither beauty, nor anything beside, save sleep only, the sleep of the dead, which took hold upon her, filling all her members with its drowsy vapour, so that she lay down in the way and moved not, as in the slumber of death. And Cupid being healed of his wound, because he would endure no longer the absence of her he loved, gliding through the narrow window of the chamber wherein he was holden, his pinions being now repaired by a little rest, fled forth swiftly upon them, and coming to the place where Psyche was, shook that sleep away from her, and set himself in his prison again, awaking her with the innocent point of his arrow. “Lo! thine old error again,” he said, “which had like once more to have destroyed thee! But do thou now what is lacking of the command of my mother: the rest shall be my care.” With these words, the lover rose upon the air; and being consumed inwardly with the greatness of his love, penetrated with vehement wing into the highest place of heaven, to lay his cause before the father of the gods. And the father of gods took his hand in his, and kissed his face, and said to him: “At no time, my son, hast thou regarded me with due honour. Often hast thou vexed my bosom, wherein lies the disposition of the stars, with those busy darts of thine. Nevertheless, because thou hast grown up between these mine hands, I will accomplish thy desire.” And straightway he bade Mercury call the gods together; and, the council chamber being filled, sitting upon a high throne, “Ye gods,” he said, “all ye whose names are in the white book of the Muses, ye know yonder lad. It seems good to me that his youthful heats should by some means be restrained. And that all occasion may be taken from him, I would even confine him in the bonds of marriage. He has chosen and embraced a mortal maiden. Let him have fruit of his love, and possess her forever.” Thereupon he bade Mercury produce Psyche in heaven; and holding out to her his ambrosial cup, “Take it,” he said, “and live forever; nor shall

212 Lucius Apuleius Cupid ever depart from thee.” And the gods sat down together to the marriage feast. On the first couch lay the bridegroom, and Psyche in his bosom. His rustic serving-boy bare the wine to Jupiter; and Bacchus to the rest. The Seasons crimsoned all things with their roses. Apollo sang to the lyre, while a little Pan prattled on his reeds, and Venus danced very sweetly to the soft music. Thus, with due rites, did Psyche pass into the power of Cupid; and from them was born the daughter whom men call Voluptas. Walter Pater’s translation of “Cupid and Psyche” is taken from his MARI U S TH E E PICU REAN.

213 Ivan Turgenev 1818–1883 Ivan Turgenev was born at Orel, Russia, October 28, 1818 (OldStyle). He grew up under a tyrannical mother on the family estate at Spasskoye. He was graduated from the University of St. Petersburg, where he studied under Gogol. In 1843 he took a job in the Ministry of the Interior. That same year he published Parasha, a story in verse, and met the Spanish gypsy opera singer Pauline Garcia, wife of Louis Viardot, her manager, and sister of the equally famous Malibran. Turgenev began a lifelong attachment to her. During the late 1840’s, he spent his summers at the Viardots’ estate at Courtavenel and wintered in Paris. He wrote A Month in the Country and other plays. After his mother’s death in 1850 he inherited the Spasskoye estate but bad management largely diminished his income. In 1852 his obituary tribute to Gogol got him imprisoned for a month (visiting friends made it a triumph) and he was later confined to his estate. That same year A Sports- man’s Sketches was published. All his life he maintained hot-and-cold friendships with Tolstoy and Dostoevsky. Turgenev’s Rudin and A Nest of Gentlefolk appeared in the late 1850’s, followed by On the Eve in 1860 and Fathers and Sons in 1862. Two years later he was called before a Russian Senatorial committee to answer the charge that he had conspired with Herzen’s revolutionary group in London. He was exonerated. About this time he became a member of the Paris coterie composed of Flaubert, Edmond de Goncourt, Zola, and Daudet. He befriended young Henry James. In 1872 A Month in the Country was staged for the first time, in Moscow, and Turgenev published Spring Freshets. He and the Viardots built a joint villa at Bougival, near Paris.

214 Ivan Turgenev Virgin Soil appeared in 1877. By 1882 he was gravely ill, but continued work on Clara Milich and Poems in Prose. He is regarded as the most Western of the great Russian writers, the most poetic of realists and one of the fathers of the modern objective novel. He died at Bougival on September 3, 1883. Like Dostoevsky’s White Nights1 and Galsworthy’s The Apple-Tree,2 First Love is a commemoration of that early “happiness verging on imbecility.” It was published in March, 1860. In his biography of the author, Avrahm Yarmolinsky mentions that Turgenev said he “drew upon his reminiscences of the family life of his parents. The self-contained, elegantly groomed gentleman of the tale, with his spasmodically affectionate manner toward his family, his excellent horsemanship, and his epicurean tastes, was modeled upon the author’s father. . . .” But such reminiscences have been freely transformed into a work of art. The mother of the story, for example, shows little likeness to the author’s mother. Even in his old age, Turgenev recalled that when he was young she saw to it that he was “flogged nearly every day.” He spoke of First Love as one of his “fairy tales.” Why? Partly, perhaps, because the incidents of the story might have happened in any time or place; but partly because it had little to do with the social struggle that nearly all nineteenth-century Russian writers felt themselves obliged to treat. But it is much more than a “fairy tale.” It is, quite clearly, a little masterpiece. It is put together with such extraordinary grace that we are hardly conscious of reading a story at all. We simply live it. We take part in young Vladimir’s feelings and act them out with him, because they are also ours. They are the feelings of every man who was ever in love in his first youth. And by that sign, in the perfect candor of art, they remind us Notes from the artist: “. . . a fantasy of scenes from Fathers and Sons surrounds the profile of Turgenev, an interpretation of an amusing, Cyrano-like self-caricature drawn by Turgenev in 1881.” 1 See Vol. 3, pp. 276–319, in this set. 2 See Vol. 3, pp. 323–367, in this set.

216 Ivan Turgenev how much we have forgotten, or sentimentalized, or left out; how much we felt and did not know we felt; how ignorant and violent we were, how callous and how touching. Even in a writer famous for his portraits of young girls, the Princess Zinaida is a superlative creation. This “tall, slender girl in a striped pink dress”—mischievous, quick-witted, beautiful, tender- cruel, a demanding ringmaster to her little circus of admirers—delights us at first with the freedom of her charm and then touches us with the despairing pathos of the trap in which she feels herself caught. Nor are we likely to forget the peasant grossness of old Princess Zasyekin or the draggletail poverty of her house. It becomes, nevertheless, a magic place for young Vladimir. We see finally that First Love is an astonishing example of Turgenev’s psychological perception. This basic drama, father and son in love with the same young woman—does it not reproduce and repeat Freud’s Oedipus situation in infancy,3 in which father and son compete for the mother’s love? Moreover, the incidents that convey Vladimir’s step-by-step understanding of the love between Zinaida and his father exactly parallel the small boy’s gradual discovery of the relation between his parents. And does not Zinaida treat Vladimir “like a child”—that is, as if she were his mother? But we observe one striking difference. Vladimir is at an age to identify himself with his father. So, in their love, it is as if he had both won and lost. 3 See Great Books of the Western World.

217 First Love he visitors had left long ago. The clock struck half past twelve. Only the host, Sergey Nikolayevich, and Vladimir Petrovich were left in the room. The host rang and ordered the remains of the supper to be cleared away. “So that’s agreed, then,” he said, settling himself more deeply in his arm-chair and lighting a cigar. “Each of us is to tell the story of his first love. It’s your turn, Sergey Nikolayevich.” Sergey Nikolayevich, a rotund little man with a chubby face and fair hair, glanced first at his host, then raised his eyes to the ceiling. “I had no first love,” he said at last. “I started straight with the second.” “How was that?” “Quite simple. I was eighteen when I first took an interest in a very charming young girl, but I did this as if it were nothing new to me; and it was just like that that I afterwards flirted with others. Strictly speaking, I fell in love for the first and last time with my nurse when I was six years old. But that was a very long time ago. The details of our relationship have been blotted out from my memory, and even if I remembered them, how could they possibly interest anyone?” “So what are we to do?” began the host. “There’s nothing interesting in my first love, either. I did not fall in love with anyone before I met my wife—and everything went swimmingly with us: our parents arranged the match, we very soon fell in love with each other and got married without wasting much time. My tale is soon told. I don’t mind admitting, gentlemen, that when I raised the question of first love, I was relying on you—I won’t say old, but not such young bachelors, either. Won’t you, Valdimir Petrovich, entertain us with some story?” “My first love certainly cannot be said to be quite ordinary,” Vladimir Petrovich, a man of about forty, with greying black hair, replied a little hesitantly.

218 Ivan Turgenev “Oh,” the host and Sergey Nikolayevich cried in one voice, “so much the better! Tell us about it.” “By all means. Or—no! I won’t tell it to you; I’m not very good at telling stories. I’m afraid my stories are either too short and dry or too long and unconvincing. If you don’t mind, I’d much rather write down all I can remember and read it to you.” At first his friends would not agree, but Vladimir Petrovich insisted on having it his own way. Two weeks later they met again, and Vladimir Petrovich kept his word. This was what he had written down. I was sixteen at the time. It happened in the summer of 1833. I was living in Moscow with my parents. They used to take a country house for the summer near the Kaluga Toll Gate, opposite the Neskoochny Park. I was preparing for the university, but I did very little work and was in no particular hurry. No one interfered with my freedom. I did what I liked, especially after parting with my last tutor, a Frenchman, who could never get used to the idea that he had dropped like a bomb (comme une bombe) into Russia, and he used to lie about in bed for days on end with a resentful expression on his face. My father treated me with good-humoured indifference; my mother scarcely paid any attention to me, although she had no other children: other worries occupied her completely. My father, who was still young and very handsome, had married her for money; she was ten years older than he. My mother’s life was far from happy: she was in a state of constant irritation and was always jealous and bad-tempered, though never in my father’s presence—she was terrified of him—while his attitude to her was severe, cold, and aloof. I have never seen a man more exquisitely calm, more self-possessed, or more despotic. I shall never forget the first weeks I spent in the country. The weather was lovely; we left Moscow on the ninth of May, St. Nicholas’s Day. I used to go for walks either in the garden of our country house or in the Neskoochny Park or on the other side of the toll gate; I used to take some book with me—Kaydanov’s Primer, for instance—but I did not open it very often; I preferred much more to recite poetry, and I knew a great many poems by heart; my blood was in a ferment, and my heart ached—so sweetly and so foolishly; I was always expecting something to happen; I was in a state of constant dread of something; and I was full of wonder and seemed always to be seeking something; my imagination fluttered, and the same ideas winged their way swiftly like

219F I R ST LOVE martins round a bell tower at dawn; I would fall into a reverie, I would be sad, and I would even cry; but through the tears and through the sadness, inspired by some melodious verse or the beauty of the evening, there always shot up, like the grass in springtime, a joyous feeling of young, surging life. I had a horse; I used to saddle it myself and go for long rides into the country, breaking into a gallop and imagining myself a knight at a tournament (how gaily the wind whistled in my ears!)—or, turning my face towards the sky, received its shining azure light into my wide-open soul. I remember that at that time the image of woman, the vision of a woman’s love, hardly ever took any definite shape in my mind; but in everything I thought, in everything I felt, there was hidden a half- conscious, shy presentiment of something new, unutterably sweet, feminine. This presentiment, this expectation, pervaded my whole being: I breathed it; it ran through my veins with every drop of blood. . . . It was soon to be fulfilled. Our country place consisted of a wooden manor house with columns and two one-storied cottages; in the cottage on the left was a very small factory for the manufacture of cheap wall-paper; I used to go over there quite frequently to watch about a dozen thin and dishevelled boys with pinched faces, in long greasy smocks, who kept jumping onto wooden levers and pressing them down onto the square blocks of the presses and in this way, by the weight of their feeble bodies, stamp the brightly coloured patterns on the wall-paper. The cottage on the right stood empty and was to let. One day, three weeks after the ninth of May, the shutters of this cottage were opened and women’s faces appeared in the windows. Some family must have moved in. I remember that that same day at dinner my mother asked the butler who our new neighbours were, and hearing the name of Princess Zasyekin first remarked, not without a certain note of respect, “Oh, a princess,” and then added, “A poor one, I expect.” “They arrived in three cabs, ma’am,” observed the butler, handing her a dish deferentially. “I don’t think they have a carriage of their own, ma’am. Their furniture is of the cheapest kind.” “I see,” said my mother. “So much the better.” My father gave her a cold look, and she fell silent. And indeed Princess Zasyekin could not have been a rich woman; the cottage she had rented was so dilapidated, so small, and so low that people who were even moderately well off would not have consented to live

220 Ivan Turgenev in it. However, at the time I paid no attention to it. The princely title had little effect on me; I had just been reading Schiller’s The Robbers. I was in the habit of wandering about our garden every evening with a gun, looking for crows. I had for a long time felt a detestation for these wary, predatory, and cunning birds. On the day I am speaking of I also went into the garden, and, having walked through all the avenues without result (the crows knew me and only cawed harshly from afar), I chanced to come near the low fence which separated our property from the narrow strip of garden which ran to the right behind the cottage and which belonged to it. I was walking along with my eyes fixed on the ground. Suddenly I heard voices. I looked across the fence and stood rooted to the spot. A curious sight met my eyes. A few paces from me, in a clearing among the green raspberry bushes, stood a tall, slender girl in a striped pink dress with a white kerchief on her head; she was surrounded by four young men and she was tapping them in turn on the forehead with those small grey flowers whose name I do not know, though they are very well known to children: these flowers form little bags and burst with a pop when struck against anything hard. The young men presented their foreheads so eagerly, and there was in the movements of the young girl (I saw her in profile) something so fascinating, imperious, caressing, mocking, and charming, that I nearly cried out with wonder and delight and would, I believe, have given everything in the world at that moment to have those lovely fingers tap me on the forehead too. My gun slipped to the grass; I forgot every- thing; my eyes devoured this graceful figure, the slender neck, the beautiful arms, the slightly untidy fair hair under the white kerchief, and the half-closed, intelligent eye, the eyelashes, the delicate cheek beneath them. “I say, young man,” said a voice suddenly near me, “is it proper to stare like that at young ladies you do not know?” I started, thunderstruck. Near me, on the other side of the fence, stood a man with close-cropped black hair, looking ironically at me. At that very moment the young girl too turned towards me. I saw a pair of enormous grey eyes in a vivacious, lively face, and this face suddenly quivered and laughed; her white teeth flashed and her eyebrows lifted in a rather amusing fashion. I flushed, snatched up my gun from the ground, and, pursued by ringing though not unkind laughter, fled to my room, flung myself on the bed, and covered my face with my hands. My

221F I R ST LOVE heart leapt inside me; I was very ashamed and happy; I felt tremendously excited. After a short rest I brushed my hair, tidied myself, and went downstairs to tea. The image of the young girl floated before me; my heart was no longer leaping but seemed to contract delightfully. “What’s the matter with you?” my father asked me suddenly. “Shot a crow?” I was about to tell him everything, but stopped short and merely smiled to myself. As I was going to bed, without knowing myself why, I spun round three times on one foot, put pomade on my hair, got into bed, and slept soundly all night. Before morning I woke up for a moment, raised my head, looked round me in ecstasy, and—fell asleep again. “How can I get to know them?” was my first thought when I woke in the morning. Before breakfast I went for a walk in the garden, but did not go too near the fence and saw no one. After breakfast I walked several times up and down the street before the cottage and peered into the windows from a distance. I thought I could see her face behind the curtain, and I walked away quickly in a panic. “Still, I must get to know them,” I thought, walking aimlessly about the sandy stretch before the Neskoochny Park. “But how? That is the question.” I recalled the minutest details of yesterday’s meeting: for some reason I had a most vivid recollection of the way she had laughed at me. But while I worried and made all sorts of plans, fate was already doing her best to gratify my desire. While I was out, my mother had received from her new neighbour a letter on grey paper, sealed with the sort of brown wax that is used only in official post office notices and on the corks of bottles of cheap wine. In this letter, illiterate and written in a slovenly hand, the princess begged my mother to do her a great favour: my mother, the princess wrote, was on very intimate terms with people in high positions on whom depended the fortunes of herself and her children, for she was engaged in a number of very important lawsuits. “I rite to you,” she wrote, “as one noblewoman to another, and becos of that I am pleesed to make use of this oportunity.” In conclusion she asked my mother’s permission to call on her. I found my mother in a disagreeable mood: my father was not at home, and she had no one to consult. Not to reply to a “noblewoman,” and a princess into the bargain, was impossible. But my mother was at a loss as to how to reply. To write a note in French was, she thought, in-

222 Ivan Turgenev appropriate, while she was not particularly good at Russian spelling herself. She knew this and did not want to compromise herself. She was therefore glad of my return and at once told me to go round to the princess and explain to her by word of mouth that she was always ready to be of service to Her Highness as far as was in her power and she asked the princess to do her the honour of calling on her at one o’clock. The unexpectedly rapid fulfilment of my secret desires both delighted and frightened me; however, I did not show any sign of the confusion that overcame me and went first to my room to put on my new cravat and frock-coat: at home I still went about in a tunic and a turned-down collar, although I was sick and tired of them. In the narrow and untidy passage of the cottage, which I entered shaking nervously all over, I was met by a grey-headed old servant with a face the colour of dark copper, surly little pig’s eyes and deep furrows on his forehead, and temples such as I had never seen in my life before. He was carrying a plate with a clean-picked herring bone on it, and, shutting the door leading into another room with his foot, said in an abrupt tone of voice, “What do you want?” “Is Princess Zasyekin at home?” I asked. “Vonifaty!” a woman’s cracked voice screamed from behind the door. The man-servant turned his back on me without a word, revealing the extremely threadbare back of his livery with a solitary, rusty crested button, and, putting the plate down on the floor, went away. “Have you been to the police station?” the same woman’s voice repeated. The man muttered something in reply. “What? Someone’s come?” I heard her say again. “The young gentleman from next door? Well, ask him in.” “Will you step into the drawing room, sir?” said the servant, reappearing before me again and picking up the plate from the floor. I put myself to rights and went into the “drawing room.” I found myself in a small and not particularly tidy room with rather shoddy furniture which seemed to have been arranged in a hurry. By the window, in an arm-chair with a broken arm, sat a woman of about fifty, bare-headed and rather plain, in an old green dress with a striped worsted kerchief round her neck. She glanced at me with her small black eyes. I went up to her and bowed. “Have I the honour to address Princess Zasyekin?” “I am Princess Zasyekin. Are you the son of Mr. W.?”

223F I R ST LOVE “Yes, ma’am, I am. I have come to you with a message from my mother.” “Sit down, please. Vonifaty, where are my keys? You haven’t seen them, have you?” I told Princess Zasyekin my mother’s reply to her note. She listened to me, drumming on the window-sill with her thick, red fingers, and when I had finished, she stared at me once more. “Very good, I shall certainly call,” she said at last. “But, gracious me, how young you are! How old are you, may I ask?” “S-sixteen,” I replied with an involuntary stammer. The princess pulled out of her pocket some greasy papers covered with writing, raised them to her nose, and began looking through them. “An excellent age,” she said suddenly, turning to me and fidgeting in her chair. “Please make yourself at home. We’re ordinary people here.” “A bit too ordinary,” I thought to myself, glancing with a feeling of involuntary disgust at her unprepossessing person. At that moment another door was flung open and in the doorway there appeared the girl I had seen in the garden the previous evening. She raised her hand, and a mocking smile appeared for a moment on her face. “And here’s my daughter,” said the princess, pointing to her with her elbow. “Zeena, darling, this is the son of our neighbour, Mr. W. What’s your name, may I ask?” “V-Vladimir,” I replied, getting up and stuttering in my excitement. “And your patronymic?” “Petrovich.” “I see. I used to know a police commissioner once. He was also called Vladimir Petrovich. Vonifaty, don’t look for the keys—they are in my pocket.” The young girl continued to look at me with the same mocking smile, screwing up her eyes slightly and putting her head a little on one side. “I’ve already met M’sieu Woldemar,” she began. (The silvery sound of her voice ran through me with a kind of delightful shiver.) “You don’t mind me calling you that, do you?” “Why, of course not,” I murmured. “Where was that?” asked the princess. The young princess did not answer. “You haven’t got anything special to do now, have you?” she asked, without taking her eyes off me. “Why, no, ma’am.” “Would you like to help me wind some wool? Follow me, please. This

224 Ivan Turgenev way—to my room.” She nodded to me and left the drawing room. I followed her. In the room we entered, the furniture was a little better and arranged with more taste. At that moment, though, I was quite unable to notice anything: I moved as though in a dream and was overwhelmed by an intense feeling of happiness verging on imbecility. The young princess sat down, took a skein of red wool, and, motioning me to a chair opposite, carefully untied the skein and put it across my hands. All this she did in silence with a kind of amused deliberation and with the same bright, sly smile on her slightly parted lips. She began to wind the wool round a bent card and then suddenly dazzled me with so swift and radiant a glance that I could not help dropping my eyes. When her eyes, mostly half-closed, opened wide, her face was completely transformed, as though flooded with light. “What did you think of me yesterday, M’sieu Woldemar?” she asked, after a short pause. “I expect you must have thought me dreadful.” “Why, I—er—Princess—I—I—didn’t think anything—how—could—I?” I replied in confusion. “Listen,” she said. “You don’t know me yet. I’m an awfully strange person. I want people to tell me the truth always. You are sixteen, I hear, and I am twenty-one. You see, I’m very much older than you, and that is why you must always tell me the truth—and,” she added, “do what I tell you. Look at me! Why don’t you look at me?” I was more confused than ever, but I did raise my eyes and look at her. She smiled, not as before, but approvingly. “Look at me,” she said, dropping her voice caressingly. “I do not mind it at all. I like your face. I have a feeling we shall be friends. And do you like me?” she added slyly. “Princess—” I began. “First of all, you must call me Zinaida Alexandrovna, and, second, what a strange habit children”—she quickly corrected herself—“young men have of not saying frankly what they feel. That’s all very well for grown ups. You do like me, don’t you?” Though I was very pleased that she should be talking so frankly to me, I was a little hurt. I wanted to show her that she was not dealing with a mere boy, and, assuming as serious and nonchalant an air as I could, I said, “Of course I like you very much, Zinaida Alexandrovna. I have no wish to conceal it.” She shook her head slowly. “Have you a tutor?” she asked suddenly.

225F I R ST LOVE “No, I haven’t had one for ages.” I was telling a lie: it was not a month since I had parted with my Frenchman. “Oh, I see, you’re quite grown up.” She rapped me lightly over the fingers. “Hold your hands straight!” And she busily began winding the ball of wool. I took advantage of the fact that she did not raise her eyes to examine her at first stealthily and then more and more boldly. I thought her face was even more lovely than on the previous day: everything in it was so delicate, intelligent, and charming. She was sitting with her back to the window, which was covered with a white blind: the sunshine streaming through the blind shed a soft light on her fine, golden hair, her virginal throat, her sloping shoulders, and her calm, tender bosom. I gazed at her—and how dear and near she was already to me! I couldn’t help feeling that I had known her a long, long time and that before her I had known nothing and had not lived. She was wearing a dark, rather old and worn dress with an apron; I would gladly have caressed every fold of that dress and that apron. The tips of her shoes peeped from under her skirt: I could have knelt in adoration to those shoes! “And here I am, sitting in front of her,” I thought. “I have made her acquaintance. God! What happiness!” I almost leapt from my chair in ecstasy, but, in fact, all I did was to swing my legs a little, like a child eating a sweet. I was as happy as a fish in water. I could have stayed in that room forever. I could have never left it. Her eyelids were slowly raised and once more her bright eyes shone caressingly upon me, and again she smiled. “How you do look at me!” she said slowly, and she shook a finger at me. I blushed. “She understands everything; she sees everything,” flashed across my mind. “And how could she fail to understand it all and see it all?” Suddenly there was a clatter in the next room—a sabre clanked. “Zeena,” the old princess cried from the drawing room, “Belovzorov has brought you a kitten!” “A kitten!” cried Zinaida, and, rising impetuously from her chair, she threw the ball of wool into my lap and ran out of the room. I too got up and, leaving the skein and the ball of wool on the windowsill, went out into the drawing room and stopped dead in amazement: a tabby kitten was lying in the middle of the room with its paws in the air; Zinaida was on her knees before it, cautiously lifting up its tiny head. Near the old princess, almost filling the entire space between the two

226 Ivan Turgenev windows, I saw a fair-haired and curly-headed, stalwart, young hussar officer, with a pink face and protruding eyes. “What a funny little thing!” Zinaida was saying. “And its eyes aren’t grey—they’re green—and what enormous ears he’s got! Thank you, Victor! How sweet of you.” The hussar, whom I recognized as one of the young men I had seen the previous evening, smiled and bowed, clicking his spurs and clinking the chain of his sabre. “You were pleased to say yesterday that you’d like to have a tabby kitten with large ears, so I—I got one. Your word is law.” And he bowed again. The kitten miaowed feebly and began to sniff the floor. “It’s hungry!” cried Zinaida. “Vonifaty, Sonia, bring some milk.” The maid, in an old yellow dress and with a faded kerchief round her neck, came in with a saucer of milk in her hands and set it before the kitten. The kitten gave a start, screwed up its eyes, and began to lap. “What a pink little tongue it’s got!” observed Zinaida, bending her head almost to the floor and looking at the kitten sideways under its very nose. The kitten drank its fill and began purring and moving its paws up and down finickingly. Zinaida got up and, turning to the maid, said in an indifferent voice, “Take it away.” “Allow me to kiss your hand in return for the kitten,” said the hussar, flashing his teeth and flexing his whole powerful frame, tightly encased in a new uniform. “Both of them,” replied Zinaida, and she held out her hands to him. While he kissed them, she looked at me over his shoulder. I stood stock still and did not know whether to laugh, to say something, or to remain silent. Suddenly I caught sight of our footman, Fyodor, through the open passage door. He was making signs to me. Mechanically I went out to him. “What are you doing here?” I asked. “Your mother has sent for you,” he said in a whisper. “She is angry because you haven’t come back with the answer.” “Why, have I been here long?” “Over an hour, sir.” “Over an hour!” I repeated involuntarily and, returning to the drawing room, I began to take my leave, bowing and scraping my feet. “Where are you off to?” asked the young princess, glancing at me from behind the hussar.

227F I R ST LOVE “I’m afraid I have to go home. . . . So I am to say,” I added, turning to the old woman, “that you will call on us about two o’clock?” “Yes, do say that, dear boy.” The old princess hurriedly reached for a snuff-box and took the snuff so noisily that it almost made me jump. “Yes, do say that,” she repeated, blinking tearfully and groaning. I bowed once more, turned, and walked out of the room with that uncomfortable sensation in my back which a very young man feels when he knows he is being watched from behind. “Mind you come and see us again, M’sieu Woldemar!” cried Zinaida, and laughed again. “Why is she always laughing?” I thought as I was returning home, accompanied by Fyodor, who said nothing to me, but walked behind me with a disapproving air. My mother scolded me and wondered what I could have been doing so long at the princess’s. I made no answer and went off to my room. Suddenly I felt very sad. I tried hard not to cry. I was jealous of the hussar. The old princess paid a visit to my mother as she had promised. My mother did not like her. I was not present at their interview, but at dinner my mother told my father that this Princess Zasyekin struck her as une femme très vulgaire, that she had wearied her out with her requests to intercede on her behalf with Prince Sergey, that she seemed to be involved in some lawsuits and shady business deals—des vilaines affaires d’argent—and that she must be a thoroughly unpleasant woman. My mother, however, added that she had asked her and her daughter to dinner the next day (hearing the words “and her daughter,” I buried my nose in my plate), because she was, after all, a neighbour and a titled woman. Upon which my father informed my mother that he now remembered who this lady was; that when he was a young man he had known the late Prince Zasyekin, a highly cultured but frivolous and ridiculous man; that in society he was known as “le Parisien” because he had lived in Paris for a long time; that he had been very rich but had gambled away his entire fortune, and for some unknown reason, probably for money—“though he could have made a much better choice,” my father added with a cold smile—married the daughter of some departmental clerk and after his marriage had begun speculating and completely ruined himself. “I do hope she’s not going to ask for a loan,” observed my mother. “I should not be in the least surprised,” my father said calmly. “Does she speak French?”

228 Ivan Turgenev “Very badly.” “I see. However, that doesn’t matter. I think you said you’d also asked her daughter? Someone was telling me that she was a very charming and well-educated girl.” “Oh? Then she can’t take after her mother.” “No, nor after her father,” said my father. “He was cultured too, but a fool.” My mother sighed and sank into thought. My father was silent. I felt very uncomfortable during this conversation. After dinner I went into the garden, but without my gun. I vowed not to go near the “Zasyekin garden,” but an irresistible force drew me there, and I was not disappointed. For I had hardly reached the fence when I caught sight of Zinaida. This time she was alone. She had a book in her hand and was walking slowly along the path. She did not notice me. I nearly let her pass by, but suddenly recollected myself and coughed. She turned round but did not stop. With her hand she pushed back the broad blue ribbon of her round straw hat, looked at me, smiled gently, and again dropped her eyes to the book. I took off my cap and, after hesitating a little, walked away with a heavy heart. “Que suis je pour elle [What am I to her]?” I thought (goodness only knows why!) in French. Familiar footsteps sounded behind me: I looked round—my father was coming towards me with his light, quick step. “Is that the young princess?” he asked me. “Yes.” “Do you know her?” “I saw her this morning at the old princess’s.” My father stopped and, turning sharply on his heels, went back. Drawing level with Zinaida, he bowed to her courteously. She too bowed to him—not without some surprise, though—and lowered her book. I saw how she followed him with her eyes. My father always dressed very exquisitely and simply and in a style all his own; but never before had his figure struck me as more elegant, and never before had his grey hat sat more handsomely on his barely perceptibly thinning hair. I walked towards Zinaida, but she did not even glance at me. She raised her book again and walked away. I spent the whole of that evening and the following morning in a state of stunned misery. I remember I tried to work and opened Kaydanov, but the clearly printed lines and pages of the celebrated text-book flashed

229F I R ST LOVE before my eyes in vain. A dozen times over I read the words: “Julius Caesar was distinguished for martial valour,” but did not understand a word and threw the book down. Before dinner I pomaded my hair again and again put on my new coat and cravat. “What’s this for?” asked my mother. “You’re not a university student yet, and heaven knows whether you’ll ever pass your examinations. Besides, how long is it since I bought you your tunic? You’re not going to throw it away, are you?” “We’re going to have visitors,” I whispered almost in despair. “What nonsense! Visitors indeed!” I had to give in. I changed the coat for my tunic, but I did not take off the cravat. The princess and her daughter arrived half an hour before dinner. The old woman had thrown a yellow shawl over the green dress in which I had seen her before and put on an old-fashioned bonnet with flame-coloured ribbons. She began talking at once about her bills of exchange, sighing and complaining about her poverty, and went on and on about it without apparently feeling in the least humiliated: she took snuff as noisily as before and fidgeted and turned about on her chair as freely as ever. It never seemed to occur to her that she was a princess. Zinaida, on the other hand, carried herself very gravely, even haughtily, like a true princess. An expression of cold immobility and dignity appeared on her face, and she seemed quite a different person to me; I could discover no trace of the glances, the smiles I knew so well, though in this new guise, too, she seemed beautiful to me. She wore a light barège dress with a pale blue pattern; her hair fell in long curls down her cheeks, in the English fashion. This way of doing her hair went well with the cold expression on her face. My father sat beside her during dinner and entertained his neighbour with his usual exquisite and calm courtesy. From time to time he glanced at her, and she too looked at him now and again, but so strangely, almost with hostility. Their conversation was carried on in French; I remember I was surprised by the purity of Zinaida’s pronunciation. The old princess was, as before, not in the least put out at dinner, eating a lot and praising the dishes. My mother was obviously bored by her and answered her with a sort of melancholy disdain. Now and then my father frowned a little. My mother did not like Zinaida either. “Very proud, isn’t she?” she said the next day. “And what has she to be so proud about, I wonder— avec sa mine de grisette [with her grisette expression]?” “You’ve evidently never seen any grisettes,” observed my father.

230 Ivan Turgenev “No, I haven’t, thank God!” “Yes indeed, thank God—only how on earth can you form an opinion of them?” Zinaida had paid no attention whatsoever to me. Soon after dinner the old princess began to take her leave. “I shall count on your good offices, madam, and on yours too, sir,” she said in a sing-song voice to my mother and father. “I’m afraid there’s nothing we can do about it. We’ve had our good times, but they’re gone, so here I am, a Highness,” she added with an unpleasant laugh, “but what’s the use of a title if you’re starving?” My father bowed to her respectfully and saw her off to the front door. There I stood, in my short tunic, staring at the floor as though under sentence of death. Zinaida’s treatment of me had crushed me completely. Imagine my surprise when, as she passed by me, she said in a rapid whisper and with the former affectionate look in her eyes, “Come and see us at eight o’clock. Do you hear? Without fail!” I did not know what to make of it, but she was already gone, throwing a white scarf over her head. Punctually at eight o’clock, in my tail-coat, with a raised quiff of hair, I entered the passage of the cottage where the princess lived. The old servant scowled at me and got up unwillingly from the bench. I could hear gay voices in the drawing room. I opened the door and stepped back in astonishment. In the middle of the room, on a chair, stood the young princess, holding a man’s hat in front of her; about half a dozen men crowded round the chair. They were trying to put their hands into the hat, while she kept raising it and shaking it violently. On seeing me she cried, “Wait, wait, another visitor! I must give him a ticket too,” and, jumping lightly off the chair, she took me by the cuff of my coat. “Come along,” she said. “What are you standing there for? Gentlemen, let me introduce you: this is M’sieu Woldemar, our neighbour’s son. And these,” she added, turning to me and pointing to each one of her guests in turn, “are Count Malevsky, Dr. Lushin, the poet Maydanov, retired Captain Nirmatsky, and Belovzorov, the hussar, whom you have met already. I hope you will all be good friends.” I was so overcome with confusion that I did not even bow to anyone; in Dr. Lushin I recognized the same dark man who had put me to shame so mercilessly in the garden; the others I did not know. “Count,” Zinaida went on, “write out a ticket for M’sieu Woldemar.” “That’s not fair,” the count replied with a slight Polish accent. “He did not play forfeits with us.”

231F I R ST LOVE The count was a very handsome and fashionably dressed, dark-haired young man with expressive brown eyes, a small, narrow white nose, and a thin moustache above a tiny mouth. “It’s not fair,” repeated Belovzorov and the gentleman who had been introduced as a retired captain, a man in his forties, hideously pockmarked, with frizzy hair like a Negro’s, bandy-legged, and dressed in a military coat without epaulettes, which he wore unbuttoned. “Write out the ticket, I tell you,” repeated the princess. “What is this? A mutiny? M’sieu Woldemar is here for the first time, and today the rules do not apply to him. Don’t grumble, and write it out! That is my wish.” The count shrugged his shoulders, but, bowing his head obediently, picked up a pen in his white, beringed fingers, tore off a scrap of paper, and began writing on it. “Let me at least explain to M’sieu Woldemar what this is all about,” began Lushin in a sarcastic voice, “or else he’ll be completely at a loss. You see, young man, we are playing a game of forfeits. The princess has to pay a forfeit, and he who draws the lucky ticket will have the right to kiss her hand. Do you understand what I have told you?” I just glanced at him and continued to stand like one in a trance, while the young princess again jumped on a chair and once more began shaking the hat. They all moved up to her, and I with the rest. “Maydanov,” said the princess to the tall young man with a thin face, short-sighted little eyes, and extremely long black hair, “you, as a poet, ought to be magnanimous and give up your ticket to M’sieu Woldemar so that he may have two chances instead of one.” But Maydanov shook his head and tossed back his hair. I put my hand into the hat after all the others and unfolded my ticket. Good Lord, what did I feel when I saw on it the word kiss! “Kiss!” I cried involuntarily. “Bravo, he won!” the young princess cried. “I am so glad!” She got off the chair, looked into my eyes, and gave me such a bright and sweet look that my heart turned over within me. “Are you glad?” she asked me. “Me?” I murmured. “Sell me your ticket,” Belovzorov suddenly blurted out in my ear. “I’ll give you a hundred roubles.” I answered the hussar with so indignant a look that Zinaida clapped her hands, while Lushin cried, “Stout fellow! But,” he added, “as master of ceremonies, I am obliged to see that all the rules are kept. M’sieu Woldemar, go down on one knee! That’s our rule.” Zinaida stood in front of me with her head a little on one side, as though she wished to get a better look at me, and held out her hand to

232 Ivan Turgenev me with an air of great solemnity. Everything went black before my eyes; I was about to go down on one knee, but sank on both and touched Zinaida’s fingers so awkwardly with my lips that I scratched the tip of my nose on her nail. “Splendid!” cried Lushin, and helped me to get up. The game of forfeits went on. Zinaida made me sit down beside her. The forfeits she thought of! She had, among other things, to represent a statue, and she chose the hideous Nirmatsky as her pedestal, told him to lie down on the floor and to lower his head to his chest. The laughter never ceased for a moment. All this noise and uproar, all this unceremonious, almost riotous gaiety, all this strange relationship with unknown persons, simply went to my head, for I had been brought up soberly, in the seclusion of a staid country house. I was intoxicated, as though with wine. I began laughing at the top of my voice and talking a lot of nonsense more loudly than the others, so that even the old princess, who was sitting in the next room with some pettifogging lawyer’s clerk from the Iversky Gate, who had been invited for a consultation, came out to have a look at me. But I felt so intensely happy that I did not care for anyone’s sarcastic remarks or anyone’s disapproving looks. Zinaida continued to show a preference for me, and would not let me leave her side. For one forfeit I had to sit beside her, both of us covered with the same silk kerchief: I had to tell her my secret. I remember how both our heads were suddenly plunged in a close, semi-transparent, fragrant darkness and how near and how softly her eyes shone in this darkness, and I remember the burning breath of her parted lips and the glint of her teeth and how her hair tickled and scorched me. I was silent. She smiled mysteriously and slyly and at last whispered to me, “Well, what is it?” but I only blushed and laughed and turned away, hardly able to breathe. We got tired of forfeits and began playing a game with string. Heavens, how delighted I was when, in a moment of absentmindedness, I received a sharp and painful blow on my fingers and how I afterwards purposely tried to pretend that I was not paying attention and she teased me and refused to touch the hands that I held out to her! The things we did that evening! We played the piano, we sang and danced, and we acted a gipsy encampment. Nirmatsky was dressed up as a bear and made to drink salt water. Count Malevsky showed us all sorts of card tricks and finished up by shuffling the cards and dealing himself all the trumps at whist, upon which Lushin “had the honour” to con- gratulate him. Maydanov recited passages from his poem “The Murderer” (all this took place at a time when the romantic movement was at its

233F I R ST LOVE height), which he intended to publish in a black cover with the title printed in blood-red letters; we stole the lawyer’s clerk’s cap off his knee and made him dance a Cossack dance by way of ransom; we dressed up old Vonifaty in a bonnet, and the young princess put on a man’s hat . . . It is impossible to enumerate everything we did that evening. Belovzorov alone skulked in a corner, looking cross and frowning. Sometimes his eyes would become bloodshot, he flushed all over, and it seemed as though he would at any moment hurl himself upon us all and scatter us in all directions; but the young princess would glance at him, shake her finger, and he would once more slink back to his corner. We were quite worn out at last. Even the old princess, who, as she expressed it, could “put up with anything”—no amount of noise seemed to trouble her—felt tired and declared that she would like to have a little rest. At midnight, supper was served. It consisted of a piece of stale, dry cheese and some cold ham patties which seemed more delicious to me than any pies; there was only one bottle of wine, and that too was a rather strange one: a dark-coloured bottle with a blown-out neck, and the wine in it smelt of pink paint: however, no one drank it. Tired and exhausted with happiness, I left the cottage: at parting, Zinaida pressed my hand warmly and again smiled enigmatically. The night air was heavy and damp against my burning face. A storm seemed to be gathering. Black clouds grew and crept across the sky, changing their smoky outlines even while one looked at them. The breeze quivered restlessly in the dark trees, and somewhere far beyond the horizon thunder was growing angrily and hollowly, as though to itself. I made my way to my room by the back door. The old man-servant who looked after me was asleep on the floor, and I had to step over him; he woke up, saw me, and told me that my mother had again been angry with me and had again wanted to send for me, but that my father would not let her. (I never went to bed without saying good night to my mother and asking her blessing.) However, there was nothing to be done about it now! I told my man-servant that I would undress and get myself to bed, and put out the candle. But I did not undress and I did not go to bed. I sat down on a chair and sat there a long time, like one enchanted. What I felt was so new and so sweet. I sat still, hardly looking around and without moving, breathing slowly, and only at times laughing silently at something I remembered or turning cold inwardly at the thought that I was in love and that that was it, that was love. Zinaida’s face floated slowly before me in the darkness—floated, but did not float away; her

234 Ivan Turgenev lips still wore the same enigmatic smile; her eyes still looked at me a little sideways, questioningly, dreamily, tenderly, as at the moment when I had parted from her. At last I got up, tiptoed to my bed, and without undressing, carefully laid my head on the pillow, as though afraid to disturb by an abrupt movement that which filled my whole being. I lay down but did not even close my eyes. Soon I noticed faint glimmers of light continually lighting up my room. I sat up and looked at the window. The window bars showed up against the mysteriously and dimly lit panes. “A thunderstorm,” I thought, and I was right. It was a storm, but it was very far away, so that the thunder could not be heard; only the faint, long, branching-out forks of lightning flashed uninterruptedly across the sky: they did not flash so much as quiver and twitch, like the wing of a dying bird. I got up, went to the window, and stood there till morning. The lightning did not cease for a moment; it was what is known among the peasants as a “sparrow night,” or a night of uninterrupted storm with thunder and lightning. I looked at the silent stretch of sand and the dark mass of the Neskoochny Park, at the yellowish façades of distant buildings, which also seemed to quiver with each faint flash. I looked and could not tear myself away: this silent lightning, these restrained gleams of light, seemed to respond to the mute and secret fires which kept blazing up in me too. Morning began to break; the dawn came up in crimson patches. As the sun rose higher in the sky, the flashes of lightning grew fainter and less frequent: they quivered more and more seldom and at last vanished, drowned in the tempering and clear light of the rising day. And the lightning within me vanished too. I felt a great weariness and silence. But Zinaida’s image continued to hover triumphant over my soul. Only this image too seemed more at peace; like a swan rising from the reeds of a marsh into the air, it detached itself from the unseemly figures which surrounded it, and as I fell asleep I clung to it for a last time in a parting and trusting adoration. Oh, gentle feelings, soft sounds, the goodness and the growing calm of a heart that is deeply moved, the melting gladness of the first tender raptures of love—where are you? Where are you? Next morning when I came down to breakfast my mother scolded me—not as much as I had expected, however—and made me tell her how I had spent the previous evening. I answered her in a few words, leaving out many details and trying to make everything appear most innocent.

235F I R ST LOVE “All the same, they’re not comme il faut [socially proper],” observed my mother, “and you have no business to be hanging about there instead of working for your examinations.” Knowing that my mother’s concern for my studies would be confined to these few words, I did not consider it necessary to take exception to what she had said; but after breakfast my father put his arm through mine, and, going into the garden with me, made me give him a full account of all I had seen at the Zasyekins’. My father had a strange influence on me—and strange indeed were our relations towards one another. He took practically no part in my education, but he never hurt my feelings; he respected my freedom; he even was, if I may put it this way, polite to me; but he never let me come near him. I loved him and I admired him. He seemed to me to be a paragon of a man—and, dear me, how passionately attached to him I should have grown if only I had not constantly felt his restraining hand! Yet he could, whenever he wanted to, arouse in me an absolute trust in him almost instantaneously, by one single movement, as it were. My heart opened up to him and I chatted to him as I would to an intelligent friend or an indulgent teacher; then he would desert me with the same suddenness, and his hand would push me away again—gently and tenderly, but push me away it did for all that. Occasionally a gay mood would come upon him, and then he would be ready to play with me as though he were a little boy himself (he was fond of all strong physical exertions); once—only once!—he caressed me with such tenderness that I nearly burst into tears. But his gaiety and tenderness vanished without a trace, and what had passed between us gave me no hope for the future; it was as though it had all been happening in a dream. Sometimes as I gazed at his handsome, clever, bright face my heart would leap up and all my being would rush towards him. . . . He seemed to feel what was going on inside me, and he would give me a casual pat on the cheek and go away and do something, or he would suddenly turn cold as only he knew how to turn cold, and I would shrink back within myself at once and go cold too. His rare fits of friendliness towards me were never caused by my mute but unmistakable entreaties: they always came quite unexpectedly. Reflecting on my father’s character afterwards, I came to the conclusion that he could not be bothered with me—or with his family; it was other things he cared for, and he derived full satisfaction from them. “Grab all you can, but never allow yourself to be caught; to belong to yourself alone is the whole trick of living,” he

236 Ivan Turgenev said to me once. Another time, like the young democrat I was, I began discussing freedom in his presence (that day he was, as I called it, “good,” and it was possible to talk to him about everything). “Freedom,” he repeated, “but do you know what can give a man freedom?” “What?” “His will, his own will: that will give him power, which is better than freedom. Know how to want something, and you will be free and you will be able to command.” My father wanted to live above everything else and more than everything else, and he did live: perhaps he had a premonition that he was not going to enjoy the trick of living long: he died at forty-two. I gave my father a detailed account of my visit to the Zasyekins’. He listened to me half-attentively and half-absently, sitting on a bench and drawing in the sand with the end of his riding crop. From time to time he would chuckle, look at me in a sort of bright and amused way, and he egged me on with short questions and rejoinders. At first I could not pluck up sufficient courage even to utter Zinaida’s name, but I could not contain myself and began extolling her to the skies. My father continued to smile; then he sank into thought, stretched himself, and got up. I remembered that as he was going out of the house he ordered his horse to be saddled. He was an excellent horseman and he could break in the wildest horse long before Rarey.1 “May I come with you, Father?” I asked him. “No,” he replied, and his face assumed its usual half-indifferent, half- affectionate expression. “Go alone, if you like, and tell the groom that I shall not be going.” He turned his back on me and walked rapidly away. I followed him with my eyes—and he disappeared behind the gates. I saw his hat moving along above the fence: he went into the Zasyekins’ cottage. He did not stay there more than an hour and then left at once for the town and did not return home till evening. After dinner I myself called on the Zasyekins. In the drawing room I found only the old princess. On seeing me, she scratched her head under her bonnet with the end of a knitting needle and suddenly asked me whether I would copy out a petition for her. “With pleasure,” I replied, sitting down on the edge of a chair. 1. John S. Rarey (1828–1866) was an American horse trainer who introduced a system of throwing down vicious or unruly horses, so as to train them.—Translator.

237F I R ST LOVE “Only, mind, make your letters as big as you can,” said the old princess, handing me a sheet of paper scribbled over with her writing. “You couldn’t do it today, could you, my boy?” “Yes, ma’am, I’ll copy it out today.” The door to the adjoining room was slightly open, and Zinaida’s face appeared in the opening—pale, pensive, with her hair carelessly tossed back: she looked at me with big, cold eyes and softly closed the door. “Zeena! I say, Zeena!” said the old woman. Zinaida made no answer. I carried away the old woman’s petition and sat the whole evening over it. My passion began from that day. What I felt at that time, I remember, was something similar to what a man must feel on entering government service: I had ceased to be simply a young boy: I was someone in love. I have said that my passion began from that day; I might have added that my suffering began on that day too. Away from Zinaida, I languished: I could not think of anything, I had not the heart to do anything, and for days on end all my thoughts revolved round her. I languished . . . but in her presence I did not feel any happier. I was jealous; I realized my own insignificance; I sulked stupidly and cringed stupidly; and yet an irresistible force drew me towards her, and every time I stepped over the threshold of her room I was seized by an uncontrollable tremor of happiness. Zinaida guessed at once that I had fallen in love with her, and indeed I never thought of concealing it; she amused herself with my passion; she made a fool of me, petted me, and tormented me. It is sweet to be the only source, the despotic and arbitrary cause, of the greatest joys, the greatest sorrows, in another human being, and I was like soft wax in Zinaida’s hands. However, I was not the only one to have fallen in love with her: all the men who visited the house were madly in love with her, and she kept them all on leading strings—at her feet. It amused her to arouse their hopes one moment and their fears another, to twist them round her little finger (she used to call it “knocking people’s heads together”); and they never dreamt of offering any resistance and were only too glad to submit to her. Her whole being, so beautiful and so full of vitality, was a curiously fascinating mixture of cunning and carelessness, artificiality and simplicity, calmness and vivacity; there was a subtle, delicate charm about everything she did or said, about every movement of hers; in everything a peculiar, sparklingly vivacious force was at work. Her face too was vivacious and always changing: it expressed almost at one and

238 Ivan Turgenev the same time irony, pensiveness, and passionateness. The most various emotions, light and swift like shadows of clouds on a windy, sunny day, chased each other continuously over her lips and eyes. Every one of her admirers was necessary to her. Belovzorov, whom she sometimes called “my wild beast,” and sometimes simply “mine,” would gladly have flung himself into the fire for her; placing little confidence in his own intellectual abilities and other accomplishments, he kept proposing marriage to her, hinting darkly that the others only talked. Maydanov responded to the poetic chords of her soul: a rather cold man, like nearly all writers, he kept assuring her strenuously, and perhaps himself too, that he adored her; he extolled her in endless verses and read them to her with a kind of affected yet sincere enthusiasm. She sympathized with him and at the same time made fun of him a little; she had no great faith in him, and, after listening to his effusions, made him read Pushkin—in order, as she said, to “clear the air.” Lushin, the sarcastic doctor, who was so cynical in speech, knew her better than any of them— and loved her more than any of them, though he scolded her to her face and behind her back. She respected him but paid him back in his own coin, and occasionally used to make him feel with particularly malicious pleasure that he was completely in her power. “I am a flirt, I’m heartless, I am an actress by nature,” she said to him once in my presence. “Oh, all right, then! Give me your hand and I will stick a pin in it and you’ll be ashamed before this young man. It will hurt you, but all the same you will be good enough to laugh, Mr. Truthful Man.” Lushin flushed, turned away, bit his lips, but in the end held out his hand to her. She pricked him, and he did begin to laugh—and she laughed too, driving the pin in quite deep, and kept peering into his eyes, with which he tried in vain not to look at her. Least of all did I understand the relations which existed between Zinaida and Count Malevsky. He was good-looking, adroit, and intelligent, but even I, at sixteen, felt that there was something equivocal, something false about him, and I was surprised that Zinaida did not notice it. But possibly she did notice this falseness and felt no aversion to it. Her irregular education, strange acquaintances and habits, the constant presence of her mother, poverty and disorder in the house— everything, beginning with the very freedom which the young girl enjoyed, and with the consciousness of her superiority over the people round her, had developed in her a sort of half-disdainful carelessness and a lack of fastidiousness. Whatever happened, whether Vonifaty came in to announce that there was no sugar left, or whether some unsavoury piece of scandal

239F I R ST LOVE came to light, or her guests began to quarrel, she would only shake her curls, say, “Nonsense,” and take no notice of it. On the other hand, my blood used to boil every time Malevsky went up to her, swaying cunningly like a fox, leaned elegantly against the back of her chair, and began whispering into her ear with a self-satisfied and ingratiating little smile, while she would fold her arms over her bosom, look attentively at him, and smile herself and nod her head. “What do you want to receive Count Malevsky for?” I asked her one day. “Oh, but he has such a lovely little moustache,” she replied. “But I’m afraid that is something you don’t understand. . . . “You don’t think I’m in love with him, do you?” she said to me another time. “Oh, no, I couldn’t possibly be in love with people whom I have to look down on. I want someone who will master me. But, thank goodness, I shall never come across any man like that! I will never fall into any man’s clutches—never!” “You’ll never be in love, then?” “And what about you? Don’t I love you?” she said and flicked me on the nose with the tips of her glove. Yes, Zinaida amused herself a great deal at my expense. For three weeks I saw her every day, and what didn’t she do to me! She visited us seldom, and I was not sorry for it: in our house she became transformed into a young lady, a princess, and I was shy of her. I was afraid of betraying myself in front of my mother; she was not at all kindly disposed towards Zinaida, and watched us with an unfriendly eye. I was not so much afraid of my father: he did not seem to notice me and spoke very little to her, but whatever he said to her seemed somehow particularly brilliant and significant. I stopped working and reading; I even stopped going for walks in the neighbourhood and riding. Like a beetle tied by the leg, I circled constantly round my beloved little cottage: I would have stayed there forever if I could. But that was impossible. My mother grumbled at me, and sometimes Zinaida herself used to drive me away. Then I would shut myself up in my room, or go to the end of the garden, climb onto the very top of the ruin of a high brick green-house, and, with my legs dangling from the wall that looked onto the road, sit there for hours, staring and staring and seeing nothing. White butterflies fluttered lazily on the dusty nettles near me; a cheeky sparrow settled not far off on a half- broken red brick, twittering irritably, incessantly turning with its whole body and preening its little tail; now and then the still mistrustful crows

240 Ivan Turgenev cawed, sitting very high up on the bare top of a birch; the sun and the wind played gently in its sparse branches; the sound of the bells of the Donskoy monastery came floating across at times, tranquil and melancholy, while I sat there, gazing and listening, filled to overflowing with a kind of nameless sensation which had everything in it: sadness and joy, a premonition of the future, and desire, and fear of life. But just then I understood nothing of it and could not have given a name to anything that was seething within me, or I should have called it all by one name—the name of Zinaida. And Zinaida continued to play with me like a cat with a mouse. Sometimes she would flirt with me, and I was all agitated and melting with emotion; at other times she would suddenly push me away, and I dared not go near her, dared not look at her. I remember she was very distant with me for several days. I was completely abashed and, dropping in timidly at the cottage, tried to keep close to the old princess, in spite of her being particularly loud- voiced and abusive just at that time: her financial affairs had been going badly and she had already had to give two statements to the police. One day as I was walking in the garden past the familiar fence I caught sight of Zinaida: she was sitting on the grass, her head propped up on both her hands, and did not stir. I was about to retreat cautiously, but she suddenly raised her head and signalled to me imperiously to come up to her. I was rooted to the spot: I failed to understand what she meant at first. She signalled to me again. I jumped over the fence at once and rushed joyfully up to her, but she stopped me with a glance and pointed to a path two paces away from her. Overcome with confusion and not knowing what to do, I knelt at the edge of the path. She was so pale, and such bitter grief, such profound weariness were manifest in every feature of her face that my heart contracted and I murmured involuntarily, “What’s the matter?” Zinaida stretched out her hand, tore off a blade of grass, bit it, and flung it from her as far as she could. “Do you love me very much?” she asked at last. “Do you?” I made no answer, and what need was there for me to answer? “You do,” she said, looking at me as before. “That is so. The same eyes,” she added; then sank into thought and buried her face in her hands. “I’m sick and tired of it all,” she whispered. “I wish I could go away somewhere, far, far away. I can’t bear it; I can’t do anything about it. And what sort of future can I hope for? Oh, I am so miserable! God, I am so miserable!” “Why?” I asked timidly.

241F I R ST LOVE Zinaida did not reply, and only shrugged her shoulders. I remained on my knees, looking at her with blank despondency. Every word of hers cut me to the heart. At that moment I would, I believe, gladly have given up my life, if only she would have no more cause to grieve. I gazed at her, and, still not understanding why she was so unhappy, I vividly pictured to myself how, suddenly, in a fit of irrepressible sorrow, she had gone into the garden and collapsed on the ground as though felled by a blow. All round us everything was bright and green; the wind rustled in the leaves of the trees, now and again swinging a long raspberry cane over Zinaida’s head. Somewhere doves were cooing and bees were buzzing, flying low over the sparse grass. Overhead the sky was blue and tender—but I felt terribly sad. “Read me some poetry, please,” said Zinaida softly, raising herself on an elbow. “I like the way you read poetry. You speak it in a sing-song way, but that doesn’t matter; that is because you are so young. Read me ‘On the Hills of Georgia,’ only first sit down.” I sat down and recited “On the Hills of Georgia.” “ ‘Which it cannot choose but love,’ ” Zinaida repeated. “That’s why poetry is so good: it speaks to us of what does not exist and which is not only better than what exists but even more like the truth. . . . ‘Which it cannot choose but love’—it would like not to, but cannot!” She fell silent again and suddenly started and got up. “Come along. Maydanov is in the house with Mother. He’s brought me his poem, but I left him. His feelings too are hurt now, but it can’t be helped. You’ll find out someday—only don’t be angry with me!” Zinaida pressed my hand hurriedly and ran on ahead. We went back to the cottage. Maydanov began reading to us his “Murderer,” which had just been published, but I did not listen to him. He shouted his four-foot iambics in a sing-song voice; the rhymes alternated, ringing like harness bells, loud and hollow, while I kept looking at Zinaida, trying to grasp the meaning of her last words. Or perchance some secret rival Hath without warning conquered thee? Maydanov cried suddenly in a nasal tone—and my eyes and Zinaida’s met. She dropped them and blushed slightly. I saw her blush, and froze with terror. I had been jealous of her before, but it was only at that moment that the thought that she was in love flashed through my mind. “Good Lord, she is in love!”

242 Ivan Turgenev From that moment my real torments began. I racked my brain, thought it over again and again, and kept a relentless, though as far as possible secret, watch on Zinaida. It was quite clear that a change had come over her. She went for walks alone and was away for hours. Sometimes she refused to see her visitors; she sat for hours in her room. This had never happened to her before. I had suddenly become—or imagined that I had become—extremely perspicacious. “It isn’t he, or is it?” I asked myself in alarm as I went over her different admirers in my mind. Count Malevsky (though for Zinaida’s sake I was ashamed to admit it to myself ) I secretly regarded as more dangerous than the others. My powers of observation did not go farther than the end of my nose, and my secrecy most likely deceived no one; Dr. Lushin, at least, soon saw through me. He too, though, had changed of late. He had grown thinner; he laughed just as often, it is true, but his laughter somehow sounded more hollow, more spiteful, and much shorter, and in place of his former light irony and affected cynicism he now displayed a nervous irritability. “Why are you always hanging about here, young man?” he said to me one day when we were left alone together in the Zasyekins’ drawing room. (The young princess had not yet returned from her walk, and the shrill voice of the old princess could be heard on the first floor: she was having words with her maid.) “You ought to be studying, working, while you’re young, and what on earth do you think you’re doing?” “You can’t tell whether I work at home or not,” I replied, not without haughtiness, though not without some embarrassment, either. “Working indeed! You’ve something else on your mind. Well, I won’t argue with you about it. At your age it’s what one would expect. Except that you’ve been terribly unlucky in your choice. Don’t you see what sort of house this is?” “I don’t know what you’re talking about,” I said. “Don’t you? So much the worse for you. I consider it my duty to warn you. It’s all right for old bachelors like me to go on coming here: nothing much could happen to us, could it? We’ve been hardened in the battle of life. Nothing can hurt us now. But you’ve still got a tender skin. The atmosphere here is bad for you. Believe me, you might become infected.” “What do you mean?” “You know what I mean. Are you well now? Are you in a normal condition? Is what you feel now healthy for you? Is it good for you?” “Why, what am I feeling?” I said, while in my heart I realized full well that the doctor was right.

243F I R ST LOVE “Oh, young man, young man,” the doctor went on, looking as though there was something highly insulting to me in those two words, “you can’t deceive me! For, thank God, one can still read your face like an open book. However, what’s the use of talking? I wouldn’t be coming here myself if”—the doctor gritted his teeth—“if I hadn’t been as big a fool as you. What I’m really surprised at, though, is how, with your intelligence, you can’t see what is going on round you.” “Why, what is going on?” I said, all ears. The doctor looked at me with a sort of mocking pity. “I’m a fine one too,” he said, as though to himself. “Why should I be telling him this? In short,” he added, raising his voice, “let me tell you again: the atmosphere here is no good for you. You like it here, but what does that matter? It smells sweet in a hot-house too, but you can’t live in it, can you? Now you’d better listen to me and go back to Kaydanov again.” The old princess came in and began to complain to the doctor about her toothache. Then Zinaida appeared. “Please, Doctor,” added the old princess, “you’d better tell her off properly. She’s been drinking iced water all day long. Is that good for her with her weak chest?” “Why do you do that?” asked Lushin. “Why, what effect can it have on me?” “What effect? You might catch cold and die.” “Could I really? Are you sure? Well, so much the better!” “I see,” muttered the doctor. The old princess went out. “I see,” repeated Zinaida. “Do you think life is so gay? Just look round you! Well, is it so nice, or do you think that I don’t understand it, that I don’t feel it? I get pleasure from drinking water with ice, and do you seriously tell me that such a life as mine is not worth risking for a moment’s pleasure? I don’t speak of happiness.” “Oh, well,” observed Lushin, “caprice and independence—those two words sum you up: your whole nature is contained in those two words.” Zinaida laughed nervously. “You’re too late, my dear doctor. You’re not a good observer. You’re not abreast of the times. Put on your glasses. This is no time for caprices. To make a fool of you, to make a fool of myself—there’s not much fun in that any more. And as for independence— M’sieu Woldemar,” Zinaida added suddenly, stamping her foot, “don’t pull such a melancholy face. I can’t stand it when people pity me.” She went quickly out of the room.

244 Ivan Turgenev “This atmosphere is very bad for you, young man, very bad,” Lushin said again. That same evening the usual visitors gathered at the Zasyekins’; I was among them. The conversation turned on Maydanov’s poem; Zinaida expressed genuine admiration for it. “But,” she said to him, “let me tell you this. If I were a poet, I would choose different subjects. Perhaps it’s all nonsense, but all sorts of strange thoughts sometimes come into my head, especially when I can’t sleep, at daybreak when the sky begins to turn pink and grey. I would, for instance—You won’t laugh at me, will you?” “No! No!” we all cried in one voice. “I would describe,” she went on, crossing her arms and looking away, “a whole company of young girls in a large boat on a quiet river at night. The moon is shining and they are all in white, with garlands of white flowers, and they are singing, you know, something like a hymn.” “I understand, I understand, go on,” Maydanov said dreamily and meaningfully. “All of a sudden there’s an uproar—loud laughter, torches, tambourines on the bank. . . . It’s a troupe of bacchantes running, with songs and cries. It’s your business, Mr. Poet, to paint this picture, only I’d like the torches to be red and smoking a lot and the eyes of the bacchantes to gleam under their wreaths, and the wreaths to be dark. Don’t forget the tiger skins and the goblets and the gold, lots and lots of gold.” “Where should the gold be?” asked Maydanov, tossing back his lank hair and dilating his nostrils. “Where? On their shoulders, arms, legs, everywhere! In ancient times, they say, women wore gold bracelets on their ankles. The bacchantes call to the girls in the boat. The girls have stopped singing their hymn. They cannot continue it, but they do not stir: the river is carrying them to the bank. Suddenly one of them gently rises. . . . This has to be beautifully described—how she gently rises in the moonlight, and how her companions are frightened. She steps over the edge of the boat; the bacchantes surround her; they whirl her off into the night, into the dark. Here you must describe the smoke rising in clouds and everything becoming confused. All one can hear is their shrill cries, and her wreath is left lying on the bank.” Zinaida fell silent. (“Oh, she is in love!” I thought again.)

245F I R ST LOVE “And is that all?” asked Maydanov. “That’s all,” she replied. “That can’t be the subject of a whole epic poem,” he remarked pompously, “but I shall make use of your idea for a lyric poem.” “In the romantic style?” asked Malevsky. “Of course, in the romantic style. The Byronic.” “Well, in my opinion Hugo is better than Byron,” the young count declared nonchalantly. “More interesting.” “Hugo is a first-rate writer,” replied Maydanov, “and my friend Tonkosheyev, in his Spanish novel El Trovador—” “Oh,” interrupted Zinaida, “is that the book with the question marks upside down?” “Yes. That is the rule with the Spaniards. What I wanted to say was that Tonkosheyev—” “Oh, dear, you’ll be arguing again about classicism and romanticism,” Zinaida interrupted him a second time. “Come, we’d better play a game.” “Forfeits?” Lushin asked. “No. Forfeits is boring. Let’s play comparisons.” (Zinaida had invented this game herself. Some object was mentioned, and everyone tried to compare it with something else, and the one who chose the best comparison got the prize.) She went up to the window. The sun had just set; long red clouds stood high in the sky. “What are those clouds like?” asked Zinaida, and, without waiting for an answer, said, “I think they are like the purple sails on the golden ship in which Cleopatra sailed to meet Antony. Remember, Maydanov, you were telling me about it not long ago?” All of us, like Polonius in Hamlet, declared that the clouds were exactly like those sails and that not one of us could find a better comparison. “And how old was Antony then?” asked Zinaida. “He was certainly a young man,” observed Malevsky. “Yes, a young man,” Maydanov affirmed emphatically. “I’m sorry,” cried Lushin, “but he was over forty!” “Over forty,” repeated Zinaida, giving him a quick glance. I went home soon. “She’s in love,” my lips whispered involuntarily. “But with whom?” Days passed. Zinaida became stranger and stranger and more and more incomprehensible. One day I went into her room and saw her sitting

246 Ivan Turgenev on a wicker chair with her head pressed against the sharp edge of the table. She sat up—her face was wet with tears. “Oh, it’s you!” she said with a cruel smile. “Come here.” I went up to her. She put her hand on my head and, seizing me by the hair suddenly began to twist it. “It hurts!” I said at last. “Oh, it hurts, does it? And do you think it doesn’t hurt me? Me?” she repeated. “Oh, dear!” she cried suddenly, seeing she had pulled a little tuft of hair out of my head. “What have I done? Poor M’sieu Woldemar!” She carefully smoothed the hair she had torn out, wrapped it round her finger, and twisted it into a ring. “I’ll put your hair in a locket and wear it round my neck,” she said, tears still glistening in her eyes. “This will perhaps comfort you a little, and now good-bye.” I returned home to discover a disagreeable state of affairs. My mother was having words with my father, she was reproaching him for something; and he, as was his habit, responded with a polite and frigid silence, and soon left the house. I could not hear what my mother was saying, and, anyway, I had other things on my mind; I remember only that after her talk with my father, she sent for me to the study and told me that she was very displeased with my frequent visits to the old princess, who, in her words, was “une femme capable de tout.” I kissed her hand (this was what I always did when I wanted to cut short a conversation) and went up to my room. Zinaida’s tears had completely bewildered me. I simply did not know what to think and was about to burst into tears myself: I was a child, after all, in spite of my sixteen years. I was no longer thinking of Malevsky, though Belovzorov was assuming more and more menacing attitudes every day and kept looking at the shifty count like a wolf at a sheep. As for me, I had no longer any thought of anyone or anything. I was lost in all sorts of speculations and was always trying to find some secluded spots. I became particularly fond of the ruins of the hot-house. I used to climb onto the high wall, sit on top of it, and remain sitting there, an unhappy, solitary, and melancholy youth, so that in the end I felt sorry for myself. And how sweet were those mournful sensations! How I revelled in them! One day I was sitting on the wall, looking into the distance and listening to the ringing of the church bells; suddenly something passed over me—it wasn’t a wind, it wasn’t a shiver, but something like a hardly perceptible breath, like a sensation of someone’s presence. I looked down. Below, on the road, in a light grey dress with a pink parasol on her shoulder, Zinaida was walking rapidly. She saw me, stopped, and turn-

247F I R ST LOVE ing back the brim of her straw hat, raised her velvety eyes to me. “What are you doing up there at such a height?” she asked me with a strange sort of smile. “Now,” she went on, “you keep telling me that you love me. Jump down into the road to me, if you really love me.” Zinaida had scarcely uttered those words when I was falling headlong towards her just as though someone had pushed me from behind. The wall was about fifteen feet high. I reached the ground on my feet, but the impact was so strong that I could not keep my balance. I fell down and for a moment lost consciousness. When I came to, I felt, without opening my eyes, Zinaida beside me. “My sweet boy,” she was saying, bending over me, and there was a note of alarmed tenderness in her voice, “how could you do it? How could you listen to me—you know I love you. Please get up.” Her bosom rose and fell close to me; her hands were touching my head; and suddenly—oh, what became of me then?—her soft fresh lips began to cover my face with kisses—they touched my lips—but at that moment, Zinaida probably guessed from the expression on my face that I had regained consciousness, though I still did not open my eyes, and, rising quickly, she said, “Well, get up, you naughty boy, you crazy young lunatic. Why are you lying in the dust?” I got up. “Give me my parasol,” said Zinaida. “See where I have thrown it! And don’t stare at me like that! Really! You’re not hurt, are you? Stung by the nettles, I expect. I tell you, don’t keep staring at me. . . . Why, he doesn’t understand a word, he doesn’t answer,” she added, as though to herself. “Go home, M’sieu Woldemar, and brush yourself, and don’t you dare follow me, or I shall be angry and will never again—” She did not finish the sentence and walked rapidly away, while I sat down by the side of the road. My legs would not support me. My arms throbbed from the stings of the nettles, my back ached, my head swam, but the feeling of bliss I experienced at that moment I never again felt in my life. It spread like a sweet pain through all my limbs and resolved itself at last in rapturous leaps and shouts. Yes, indeed, I was still a child. I was so gay and proud all that day, I retained so vividly the sensation of Zinaida’s kisses on my face, I recalled her every word with such a shudder of delight, I cherished my unexpected happiness so much, that I felt absolutely terrified, and did not even want to see her who was the cause of all these new sensations. It seemed to me that I had no right to demand anything more of fate, that all I had to do now was “go, take a

248 Ivan Turgenev deep breath for the last time, and die.” Yet the next day, on my way to the cottage, I felt greatly embarrassed and I tried in vain to conceal my embarrassment by assuming a modestly nonchalant air, such as is proper for a man who wishes to convey that he knows how to keep a secret. Zinaida received me very simply, without betraying any emotion. She merely shook a finger at me and asked whether I had any bruises on my body. All my modest nonchalance and air of mystery vanished instantly, and with them my embarrassment. Of course I had never expected anything in particular, but Zinaida’s composure made me feel as though someone had poured cold water over me: I realized that I was a child in her eyes—and I felt very unhappy! Zinaida walked up and down the room, giving me a quick smile every time she glanced at me; but her thoughts were far away—I saw that clearly enough. “Shall I speak to her about what happened yesterday,” I thought, “and ask her where she was going in such a hurry and find out once and for all?” But I just dismissed it all as hopeless and sat down quietly in a corner. Belovzorov came in; I was glad to see him. “I couldn’t find you a quiet horse,” he said in a hard voice. “Freitag says he can answer for one, but I’m not so sure. I am afraid.” “What are you afraid of, may I ask?” asked Zinaida. “What am I afraid of? Why, you don’t know how to ride. Goodness knows what might happen! And what a fantastic idea has come into your head suddenly!” “Well, that’s my affair, my dear wild beast. In that case, I’ll ask Peter.” (My father’s name was Peter, and I was surprised that she mentioned his name in so free and easy a manner, just as though she were sure of his readiness to do her a service.) “I see,” replied Belovzorov, “so it’s with him you mean to go out riding.” “With him or someone else—what difference does it make to you? Not with you, at any rate.” “Not with me,” repeated Belovzorov. “As you wish. Oh, all right. I’ll get you a horse.” “Only mind it isn’t some old cow. I warn you, I want to gallop.” “Gallop, by all means. But with whom? You won’t go riding with Malevsky, will you?” “And why not with him, O Great Warrior? Now please calm down and don’t glare at me like that. I’ll take you too. You know that for me Malevsky is now—ugh!” She tossed her head. “You say that to console me,” growled Belovzorov. Zinaida narrowed her eyes. “Does that console you? Oh, oh, oh,

249F I R ST LOVE Great Warrior!” she said at last, as though unable to find another word. “And you, M’sieu Woldemar, would you come with us?” “I shouldn’t like to—not in—in a crowd,” I murmured without raising my eyes. “You prefer tête-à-tête? Well,” she added with a sigh, “freedom to the free; heaven—to the saints! Go along, Belovzorov, and do your best. I must have a horse for tomorrow.” “Yes, but where are you going to get the money?” the old princess put in. Zinaida wrinkled her brow. “I’m not asking you for it: Belovzorov will trust me.” “Trust you, trust you,” growled the old princess and suddenly shouted at the top of her voice, “Dunyashka!” “Mother, I’ve given you a bell,” the young princess observed. “Dunyashka!” the old woman shrieked again. Belovzorov took his leave; I left with him. Zinaida made no attempt to detain me. Next day I got up early, cut myself a stick, and went out for a walk beyond the toll gate. “I’ll go for a walk,” I thought to myself, “and get rid of my grief.” It was a beautiful day, sunny and not too hot; a gay, fresh wind roamed the earth, playing and murmuring away gently, setting everything astir but disturbing nothing. I wandered a long time, over hills and through woods; I did not feel happy; I had left home with the intention of giving myself up to melancholy thoughts; but youth, the glorious weather, the fresh air, the fun of rapid walking, the delight of lying on thick grass away from everyone, got the better of me: the recollection of those unforgettable words, of those kisses, again invaded my soul. I was glad to think that Zinaida could not but recognize my resolution, my heroism. “Others may please her better than I,” I thought, “let them! They will only tell her what they will do, while I have done it. . . . And that is not the only thing I could do for her!” I gave full rein to my imagination. I imagined how I would save her from the hands of enemies; how, covered with blood, I would drag her out of a dark dungeon; how I would die at her feet. I remembered a picture which hung in our drawing room: Malek-Adel carrying off Matilda—and at that very moment became absorbed in the appearance of a large, brightly coloured woodpecker, busily climbing up the slender trunk of a birch tree and peeping nervously from behind it, first to the right and then to the left, just like a double-bass player behind the neck of his instrument.

250 Ivan Turgenev Then I began singing, “Not white the snows,” and finished up with the at-the-time-popular song, “For you I wait when Zephyr wanton,” and so on. Then I began reciting aloud Yermak’s invocation to the stars from Khomyakov’s tragedy, attempted to compose something myself in a sentimental vein, and even thought of a line with which the whole of my poem was to conclude: “Oh, Zinaida, oh, Zinaida!” but nothing came of it. Meanwhile it was getting near dinnertime. I went down into the valley; a narrow, sandy path wound its way through it towards the town. I walked along that path. The dull thud of horses’ hooves sounded behind me. I looked round, stopped involuntarily, and took off my cap: I saw my father and Zinaida. They were riding side by side. My father was saying some- thing to her, bending right over her and leaning with his hand on the neck of his horse. He was smiling; Zinaida listened to him in silence, her eyes severely cast down and her lips tightly pressed together. At first I saw only them; a few moments later I caught sight of Belovzorov round a bend in the valley in his hussar’s uniform with a short cloak, on a foaming black horse. The gallant steed tossed its head, snorted, and pranced. The rider was holding him back and at the same time spurring him on. I stepped aside. My father gathered up the reins, moved away from Zinaida; she raised her eyes to him slowly and they galloped off. Belovzorov raced after them, his sabre rattling. “He’s as red as a lobster,” I thought, “while she . . . why is she so pale? Out riding the whole morning and—pale?” I redoubled my steps and got home just before dinner. My father was already sitting, washed and fresh and dressed for dinner, beside my mother’s chair, and was reading to her in his even and rich voice an article from Journal de Débats; but my mother listened to him without attention and when she saw me asked where I had been all day long, adding that she didn’t like it when people ran about goodness knows where and with whom. “But I have been taking a walk by myself,” I was about to reply, but I looked at my father and for some reason said nothing. During the next five or six days I scarcely saw Zinaida: she appeared to be unwell, which, however, did not prevent the usual visitors of the cottage from calling—in order, as they put it, to “keep watch by the patient’s bedside”—all except Maydanov, who immediately lost heart and looked bored whenever there was no chance for going into ecstasies. Belovzorov sat dejectedly in a corner, all buttoned up and red in the face; a kind of evil smile constantly hovered over Count Malevsky’s refined face. He really had fallen out of favour with Zinaida and was waiting with special zeal on the old princess, drove with her in a hired carriage to call on the

251F I R ST LOVE Governor-General; this visit, however, turned out to be a failure, and Malevsky was even involved in some unpleasantness, for he was reminded of an unsavoury incident with some officers of a sapper regiment and in explaining it away he had to plead his inexperience at the time. Lushin used to come twice a day, but he did not stay long; I was a little frightened of him after our last talk, and yet at the same time I felt genuinely attracted to him. One day he went for a walk with me in the Neskoochny Park, was very amiable and friendly, told me the names and the properties of various herbs and flowers, and suddenly, as they say, “out of the blue,” cried, striking himself on the forehead, “And I, fool that I am, thought that she was a flirt. It seems some people find it sweet to sacrifice themselves.” “What do you mean by that?” I asked. “I don’t want to say anything to you,” Lushin replied brusquely. Zinaida avoided me: my presence—I could not help noticing it—made an unpleasant impression on her. She turned away from me involuntarily— involuntarily. It was that that was so bitter, so crushing, but I could do nothing about it. I did my best to keep out of her sight and merely watched her from a distance, which I did not always succeed in doing. As before, something I could not understand was happening to her: her face had changed; she was quite a different person. The change that had taken place in her struck me particularly one warm, quiet evening. I was sitting on a low seat under a spreading elder bush; I was very fond of that place, for from it I could see the window of Zinaida’s room. I sat there; in the dark foliage over my head a little bird was busily moving about; a grey cat, its back arched, was creeping stealthily into the garden, and the early beetles were droning heavily in the air which was still clear, though no longer bright. I sat there looking at her window and waiting to see whether it would open: it did open, and Zinaida appeared in it. She was wearing a white dress, and she was pale: her face, shoulders, and arms were pale, almost white. She stayed there a long time without moving and for a long time gazed straight before her from under her knitted brows. I had never seen her look like that. Then she clasped her hands tight, very tight, raised them to her lips, her forehead, and suddenly pulled her fingers apart and thrust her hair back from her ears, tossed it and nodded her head with an air of determination, and slammed the window to. Three days later she met me in the garden. I was about to turn away, but she stopped me herself. “Give me your hand,” she said to me in her old affectionate tone of voice. “It’s a long time since I’ve had a talk with you.”

252 Ivan Turgenev I looked at her: her eyes shone softly and her face was smiling as though through a haze. “Are you still not well?” I asked her. “No, that’s all over now,” she replied and picked a small red rose. “I’m a little tired, but that too will pass.” “And you’ll be the same as before?” I asked. Zinaida held the rose up to her face, and it seemed to me as if her cheeks had caught the reflection of its bright petals. “Why, have I changed?” she asked me. “Yes, you have,” I answered in a low voice. “I’ve been cold to you, I know,” began Zinaida, “but you shouldn’t have paid any attention to it. I’m afraid I couldn’t help it—but why talk about it?” “You don’t want me to love you, that’s what it is!” I exclaimed darkly, in an uncontrollable outburst. “No, do love me, but not as before.” “How then?” “Let us be friends—that’s how!” Zinaida said, giving me the rose to smell. “Listen,” she said, “you know I am much older than you, don’t you? I might be your aunt, mightn’t I? Well, perhaps not your aunt, but your elder sister. And you—” “And I am a child so far as you’re concerned,” I interrupted. “Well, yes, a child, but a sweet, good, clever child whom I love very much. Do you know what? I’m going to make you my page from today, and please don’t forget that pages should never be very far from their ladies. And here’s the token of your new dignity,” she added, sticking the rose in the buttonhole of my tunic, “a sign of our gracious favour.” “I used to get other favours from you before,” I murmured. “Oh!” Zinaida said, giving me a sidelong look. “What a memory he has. Oh, well, I’m just as ready now.” And bending over me, she imprinted a chaste, calm kiss on my forehead. I just looked at her, but she turned away and saying, “Follow me, my page,” went towards the cottage. I followed her, but still in a state of bewilderment. “Can this gentle sensible girl,” I could not help thinking, “be the Zinaida I used to know?” I thought that she walked more quietly now and that her whole figure was more stately and more graceful. And, good Lord, with what fresh force my love flared up in me!

253F I R ST LOVE After dinner the visitors gathered again at the cottage—and the young princess came out to them. The entire company was there in full force, as on that first unforgettable evening. Even Nirmatsky dragged himself to the party to see her; this time Maydanov arrived before anyone else and brought a new poem with him. The game of forfeits began again, but this time without the strange pranks, without the horseplay and noise—the gipsy element had gone. Zinaida gave a new tone to our gathering. I sat beside her, as her page. Among other things, she proposed that anyone who had to pay a forfeit should tell his dream; but this was not a success. The dreams were either uninteresting (Belovzorov had dreamt that he fed carp to his mare and that she had a wooden head), or unnatural and made-up. Maydanov regaled us with a long, long story; there were sepulchres in it, angels with lyres, talking flowers, and mysterious sounds coming from afar. Zinaida did not let him finish. “If we have to have fiction,” she said, “then let everyone tell something he has made up.” It was Belovzorov again who had to begin. The young hussar looked embarrassed. “I can’t think of anything!” he exclaimed. “What nonsense!” Zinaida cried. “Well, imagine, for instance, that you are married and tell us how you would spend your time with your wife. Would you lock her up?” “Yes, I should.” “And would you stay with her yourself?” “Yes, I should most certainly stay with her myself.” “Excellent. But what if she got tired of it and was unfaithful to you?” “I’d kill her.” “And if she ran away?” “I’d catch up with her and kill her all the same.” “I see. Well, and suppose I were your wife, what would you do then?” Belovzorov was silent for a minute. “I’d kill myself.” Zinaida laughed. “I can see that your tale is quickly told.” The next forfeit was Zinaida’s. She lifted her eyes to the ceiling and sank into thought. “Now listen,” she began at last, “this is what I have thought of. Imagine a magnificent palace, a summer night, and a wonderful ball. The ball is being given by a young queen. Everywhere is gold, marble, crystal, silk, lights, diamonds, flowers, burning joss- sticks, all the wild extravagances of luxury.” “You like luxury?” Lushin interrupted her. “Luxury is beautiful,” she replied, “and I love everything beautiful.”

254 Ivan Turgenev “More than the beautiful?” he asked. “That sounds a little too clever,” she replied. “I don’t understand it. Please don’t interrupt. And so, the ball is magnificent. Lots and lots of guests, and all of them are young, handsome, and brave, and all are head over heels in love with the queen.” “Are there no women among the guests?” Malevsky asked. “No, or wait—there are.” “Are they all unattractive?” “No, they’re lovely. But the men are all in love with the queen. She is tall and graceful, and she has a little gold diadem on her black hair.” I looked at Zinaida, and at that moment she seemed to me so much above us all, there was such bright intelligence and such power about her white forehead and her motionless eyebrows, that I could not help thinking, “You are that queen yourself!” “They all crowd round her,” Zinaida went on, “they all lavish the most flattering speeches upon her.” “Why, does she like flattery?” asked Lushin. “What an insufferable creature you are! You will interrupt. Who doesn’t like flattery?” “Just one last question,” Malevsky observed. “Has the queen a husband?” “I hadn’t thought of that. No, why a husband?” “Naturally,” Malevsky put in. “Why should she?” “Silence!” cried Maydanov in French, which he spoke badly. “Merci,” Zinaida said to him. “And so,” she went on, “the queen listens to these speeches, listens to the music, but does not look at any of the guests. Six windows are open from top to bottom, from floor to ceiling, and beyond them is a dark sky with big stars and a dark garden with big trees. The queen looks out into the garden. There, near the trees, is a fountain: it is white in the darkness, and it is tall, tall like a ghost. The queen hears through the talk and the music the soft plashing of its waters. She looks and thinks, ‘You, gentlemen, are all noble, intelligent, rich, you crowd round me, you treasure every word I utter, you are all ready to die at my feet, I have you all in my power. But there, near the fountain, near that plashing water, he whom I love and who holds me in his power awaits me. He wears neither costly garments nor precious stones, no one knows him, but he waits for me, certain that I will come—and I will come, and there is no power on earth which can stop me when I want to go to him, stay with him, and lose myself with him there in the darkness of the garden, with the whispering trees and the plashing of the fountain. . . .’ ”

255F I R ST LOVE Zinaida fell silent. “Is this—fiction?” Malevsky inquired cunningly. Zinaida did not even look at him. “And what should we have done, gentlemen,” Lushin suddenly said, “if we had been among the guests and had known of the lucky fellow at the fountain?” “Wait, wait,” Zinaida interrupted. “I will myself tell you what each of you would have done. You, Belovzorov, would have challenged him to a duel; you, Maydanov, would have written an epigram on him—though, no, you don’t know how to write epigrams: you would have written a long poem on him in iambics, something in the style of Barbier, and would have published it in the Telegraph. You, Nirmatsky, would have borrowed—no, you would have loaned him money at high interest. You, Doctor . . .” She stopped. “I’m sorry, but I really don’t know what you would have done.” “As her court physician,” replied Lushin, “I should have advised the queen not to give balls when she was not in the mood for entertaining guests.” “Perhaps you’d have been right. And you, Count?” “And I?” Malevsky repeated with his evil smile. “You would have offered him a poisoned sweet.” Malevsky’s face became slightly twisted and for a moment assumed a villainous look, but he burst out laughing immediately. “As for you, Woldemar . . .” Zinaida went on. “But I suppose that’s enough. Let’s play another game.” “M’sieu Woldemar, as the queen’s page, would have carried her train as she ran into the garden,” Malevsky remarked venomously. I flushed, but Zinaida quickly laid a hand on my shoulder and, getting up, said in a slightly trembling voice, “I never gave your lordship the right to be insolent, and I must ask you to leave.” She pointed to the door. “Good Lord, Princess,” murmured Malevsky, turning very pale. “The princess is right,” cried Belovzorov and he too rose. “Good Lord, I never expected—” Malevsky went on. “I—I believe there was nothing in my words—I had never intended to insult you. . . . Forgive me.” Zinaida looked him up and down very coldly and smiled coldly. “You may stay, if you like,” she said, with a careless gesture of the hand. “M’sieu Woldemar and I have no real cause to be angry. You seem to enjoy stinging people—much good may it do you.” “Forgive me,” Malevsky repeated.

256 Ivan Turgenev But I, recalling Zinaida’s gesture, could not help reflecting once more that no real queen could have shown an impertinent man the door with greater dignity. After this little scene the game of forfeits went on for only a short time; everyone felt rather ill at ease, not so much because of the scene itself as because of another vague but oppressive feeling. No one spoke of it, but everyone was conscious of it in himself and in his neighbour. Maydanov read us his poem, and Malevsky praised it with exaggerated warmth. “How keen he is to show us now what a good fellow he is,” Lushin whispered to me. We soon left. Zinaida suddenly became thoughtful; the old princess sent word that she had a headache; Nirmatsky started complaining of his rheumatism. I could not sleep for a long time. I was very much struck by Zinaida’s story. “Can there have been a hint in it?” I asked myself. “And at whom and at what could she have been hinting? And if there really is something to hint at, what am I going to do about it? “No, no, it can’t be,” I whispered, turning from one hot cheek to the other; but I recalled the expression on Zinaida’s face as she told her story; I remembered the exclamation that had escaped Lushin in the Neskoochny Park, the sudden changes in her behaviour to me, and I was lost in conjectures. “Who is he?” These three words seemed to stand before my eyes, traced clearly in the darkness; it was as though a low, omnious cloud hung over me and I felt its pressure and was waiting for it to burst at any moment. I had got used to many things during the last few weeks, and I had seen as much as I wanted at the Zasyekins’: their disorderly life, the tallow candle-ends, the broken knives and forks, the gloomy Vonifaty, the slatternly maids, the manners of the old princess herself—all this strange mode of life no longer surprised me. But what I seemed to be dimly discerning now in Zinaida I could never become used to. . . . “An adventuress,” my mother had once described her. An adventuress—she, my idol, my goddess! That word stung me. I tried to escape from it into my pillow. I was indignant and, at the same time, what would I not have agreed to do, what would I not have given, to be that lucky fellow at the fountain! My blood was on fire and coursing through my veins. “The garden— the fountain,” I thought. “I’ll go to the garden.” I dressed quickly and slipped out of the house. The night was dark. The trees scarcely whis- pered; a gentle chill fell from the sky; the scent of fennel came from the

257F I R ST LOVE kitchen-garden. I walked through all the avenues; the light sound of my own footsteps disturbed and at the same time emboldened me; every now and then I stopped dead, waited, and listened to my heart beating fast and heavily. At last I went up to the fence and leaned against a stake. Suddenly—or did I imagine it?—a woman’s figure flashed by a few paces from me. I stared intently into the darkness; I held my breath. . . . What was that? Did I hear steps, or was it again the beating of my heart? “Who is there?” I murmured, almost inaudibly. What was that again? A smothered laugh? Or the rustling of leaves? Or a sigh close to my ear? I felt frightened. “Who is it?” I repeated, still more softly. A slight breeze came and went in a moment; a streak of fire flashed across the sky—a falling star. “Zinaida?” I was about to ask, but the sound died on my lips. And suddenly everything became profoundly still all round me, as often happens in the middle of the night. Even the cicadas ceased whirring in the trees—only a window was slammed to somewhere. I stood and stood and then went back to my room, to my bed, which had grown quite cold by then. I felt a strange excitement, as though I had gone to a rendezvous and had been left out in the cold, passing by another man’s happiness. The next day I only caught a glimpse of Zinaida: she was driving somewhere with the old princess in a cab. I did see Lushin, though, who barely acknowledged my greeting, and Malevsky. The young count grinned and began talking to me very amiably. Of all the visitors to the cottage, he alone had managed to worm himself into our house. My mother took a liking to him. My father was not particularly friendly with him and treated him with almost offensive politeness. “Ah, Monsieur le page,” began Malevsky. “Very glad to meet you. What is your beautiful queen doing?” His fresh, handsome face was so detestable to me at that moment and he was looking at me with such a playfully contemptuous expression at that moment that I did not answer him at all. “Are you still angry with me?” he went on. “You shouldn’t be, you know. It wasn’t I who called you a page. Besides, queens usually have pages. But I hope you won’t mind my telling you that you are performing your duties very badly.” “Oh?” “Pages should never be far away from their mistresses. Pages should know everything their mistresses do; they should even watch them,” he added, lowering his voice, “day and night.” “What do you mean by that?”

258 Ivan Turgenev “What do I mean? I believe I’ve made myself perfectly clear. Day— and night. In the daytime it doesn’t matter very much. It is light by day, and there are lots of people about. But by night—ah, that’s when you should expect trouble. I advise you not to sleep at night and watch, watch with all your might. Remember? At night, in the garden, by the fountain—that’s where you must keep watch. You’ll thank me for it.” Malevsky laughed and turned his back on me. I don’t suppose he attached any great importance to what he had said to me. He had the reputation of a man who was very good at mystifying people, and he was famed for his ability to make fools of people at fancy-dress balls, greatly enhanced by his almost unconscious mendacity, which permeated his whole being. . . . He just wanted to tease me, but every word he uttered ran like poison through my veins. The blood rushed to my head. “Oh, so that’s what it is,” I said to myself. “Very well, it was not for nothing that I felt drawn into the garden! Well, then, it shall not be!” I exclaimed loudly, striking myself on the chest with my fist, though I had no clear idea what exactly it was that was not to be. “Whether it is Malevsky himself who goes into the garden,” I thought (he might have let the cat out of the bag; he certainly was impudent enough for that), “or whether it was someone else” (the fence of our garden was very low, and there was no difficulty in climbing over it), “whoever I happen to come across will be sorry for it! I should not advise anyone to cross my path! I’ll prove to all the world and to her, the traitress”—I actually called her a traitress—“that I know how to be revenged!” I went back to my room, took out of the writing desk an English penknife I had recently bought, felt the sharp edge, and knitting my brows, thrust it into my pocket with a look of cold and concentrated determination, just as though I was quite used to such things and had done them many times before. My heart was full of malice and turned to stone; I kept frowning all day and from time to time would walk up and down with compressed lips, my hand in my pocket clutching the knife, grown warm in my grasp, while I was preparing myself beforehand for something terrible. These new and never-before- experienced sensations absorbed me and even delighted me so much that I scarcely thought of Zinaida herself. All the time I imagined I could see Pushkin’s Aleko, the young gipsy— “Where are you going, my handsome youth—lie still . . .” And then: “You’re all bespattered with blood! Oh, what have you done? . . . Nothing!” With what a cruel smile I kept repeating this “Nothing!” My father was not at home; but my mother, who had for some time

259F I R ST LOVE past been in a state of almost continual wild exasperation, noticed my look of desperate determination and said to me at supper, “What are you sulking for, like a bear with a sore head?” I just smiled condescendingly to her in reply and thought, “If they only knew!” It struck eleven; I went to my room but did not undress; I was waiting for midnight; at last it struck. “Time I went!” I muttered through my teeth, and buttoned my coat up to the top, and even rolled up my sleeves. I went into the garden. I had already selected the spot from which to keep watch: at the end of the garden, where the fence separating our part of the grounds from the Zasyekins’ joined the common wall, grew a solitary pine tree. Standing under its low, thick branches, I could see quite well, as far as the darkness of the night permitted, everything that went on round me; nearby ran a path which always seemed full of mystery to me; like a snake, it crept under the fence which, at that spot, bore the marks of climbing feet and led up to a round summer-house of thickly growing acacias. I made my way to the pine tree, leaned against its trunk, and began my watch. The night was still and quiet, like the night before; but there were fewer clouds in the sky, and the outlines of the bushes and even of tall flowers could be seen more clearly. The first moments of waiting were full of agonizing suspense and almost of terror. I was determined to stop at nothing; all I was uncertain of was what I had to do. Was I to thunder out, “Where are you going? Stop! Confess, or die!” Or should I simply strike? Every sound, every rustle and whisper, seemed extraordinarily significant. . . . I was getting ready. . . . I leaned forward. . . . But half an hour passed, an hour passed: my blood grew calmer, colder; the realization that I was doing it all for no reason, that I was even a little ridiculous, that Malevsky had pulled my leg began to dawn on me. I left my hiding place and walked all round the garden. As though on purpose, not the slightest noise could be heard; everything was at rest; even our dog was asleep, curled up by the gate. I climbed up on the ruins of the hot-house, saw the open countryside stretching far into the distance, recalled my meeting with Zinaida, and sank into a reverie. . . . I gave a start; I thought I heard the creak of an opening door, then the faint crack of a snapping twig. In two bounds I got down from the ruin and—stood rooted to the spot. I could clearly hear the sound of rapid, light, but cautious footsteps in the garden. They were coming towards me. “Here he is—here he is at last!” raced through my heart. I pulled the knife out of my pocket convulsively, opened it convulsively—red sparks whirled round before my eyes, my hair stood on end from terror and fury.

260 Ivan Turgenev The footsteps were coming straight towards me. I stooped and crouched forward to meet them. A man came into view—Good heavens, it was my father! I recognized him at once, although he was all muffled in a dark cloak and his hat was pulled down over his face. He walked past me on tiptoe. He did not notice me, though nothing concealed me, shrunk into myself and huddled up so that I seemed to be almost level with the ground. Jealous Othello, ready for murder, was suddenly transformed into a schoolboy. I became so terrified by my father’s unexpected appearance that for the first few moments I did not notice where he had come from or in what direction he had disappeared. It was only when everything was quiet again that I got up from the ground and thought to myself, “Why is my father walking about in the garden at night?” In my panic I dropped my knife in the grass, but I did not even try to look for it: I was so terribly ashamed of myself. I became quite sober all at once. On my way back, however, I went up to my seat under the elder bush and looked up at the window of Zinaida’s bedroom. The small, slightly curved window-panes showed dimly blue in the faint light that fell from the night sky. Suddenly their colour began to change. Behind them I saw—saw quite clearly—a whitish blind pulled down cautiously and gently to the window-sill—and it remained like that, absolutely still. “What does this mean?” I said aloud, almost involuntarily, when I found myself once more in my room. “A dream, a mere coincidence, or—” The suppositions which suddenly came into my head were so new and disturbing that I did not dare even consider them. I got up in the morning with a headache. The excitement of the previous day had gone. It was replaced by an oppressive feeling of bewilderment and a strange sadness I had never experienced before. It was as though something were dying inside me. “Why are you looking like a rabbit who has had half its brain removed?” said Lushin as he met me. At lunch I kept glancing stealthily first at my father and then at my mother. My father was, as usual, composed; my mother, also as usual, secretly irritated. I waited to see whether my father would say something friendly to me, as he sometimes did, but he showed not even a sign of his ordinary cold affection. “Shall I tell Zinaida everything?” I thought. “It really can’t make any difference—it is all over between us, anyway.” I went to see her, but not only told her nothing; I did not even succeed in talking to her, much as I wanted to. The old princess’s son, a twelve-year-old cadet, had arrived from Petersburg for his holidays and Zinaida at once asked me to take him under my wing.

261F I R ST LOVE “Here,” she said, “my dear Vladimir (she called me that for the first time), is a companion for you. His name is Vladimir too. Please be friends. He is still very shy, but he has a kind heart. Show him the Neskoochny Park, take him for walks, take him under your protection. You will do so, won’t you? You’re so kind too!” She laid both her hands affectionately on my shoulders, and I was completely lost. The arrival of this boy turned me into a boy too. I looked in silence at the cadet, who stared silently back at me. Zinaida burst out laughing and pushed us towards each other. “Come on, children,” she said, “embrace.” We embraced. “Want me to take you round the garden?” I asked the cadet. “If you like,” he replied in a hoarse, regular cadet-like voice. Zinaida laughed again. I had time to notice that never before had the colour in her face been so lovely. The cadet and I set off for our walk. There was an old swing in our garden. I sat him down on the thin plank and began swinging him. He sat motionless in his small new uniform of thick cloth with wide gold braiding, and held on tightly to the ropes. “Why don’t you unbutton your collar?” I said to him. “It’s all right, I’m used to it,” he said, and cleared his throat. He was like his sister. His eyes especially recalled her. I was glad to be of some use to him, and at the same time an aching sadness was gnawing at my heart. “Now,” I thought, “I really am a little boy, whereas yesterday . . .” I remembered where I had dropped my knife the night before, and found it. The cadet asked me for it, broke off a thick stalk of wild parsley, cut himself a whistle out of it, and began whistling. Othello whistled a little too. But, that very evening, how he wept, this same Othello, in Zinaida’s arms, when, finding him in a corner of the garden, she asked him why he was so sad? My tears gushed out of my eyes with such force that she was frightened. “What’s the matter? What’s wrong with you, Vladimir?” she kept repeating, and seeing that I neither replied to her nor stopped weeping, she bent down to kiss my wet cheek. But I turned away from her and whispered through my sobs, “I know everything. Why did you play with me? What did you want my love for?” “I’m sorry, dear, dear Vladimir,” said Zinaida. “Oh, I am very much to blame,” she said, clasping her hands tightly. “There’s so much in me that is evil, dark and wicked. . . . But now I am not playing with you. I do love you. I don’t think you even suspect why and how much I love you. . . . But—what is it you know?”

262 Ivan Turgenev What could I tell her? She stood before me and looked at me, and I belonged to her entirely from head to foot the moment she looked at me. . . . A quarter of an hour later I was running races with the cadet and Zinaida: I was no longer crying, I was laughing, though, as I laughed, my swollen eyelids dropped tears; Zinaida’s ribbon was tied round my neck instead of a cravat, and I screamed with joy every time I succeeded in catching her by the waist. She did what she liked with me. I should have found it very difficult if someone had asked me to describe in detail what was going on within me during the week after my unsuccessful midnight expedition. It was a strange, feverish time, a kind of chaos, in which the most conflicting feelings, thoughts, suspicions, hopes, joys, and pains whirled about madly within me. I was afraid of looking into myself, if a boy of sixteen can ever look into himself. I was afraid of giving an account to myself of anything; I simply tried to live through the day as fast as I could, but at night I slept—the lightheartedness of childhood came to my aid. I did not want to know whether I was loved, and I did not want to admit to myself that I was not loved. I avoided my father, but avoid Zinaida I could not. In her presence I burnt as in a fire, but what did I care what kind of fire it was in which I burnt and melted, so long as I felt happy to burn and melt? I gave myself up to all my sensations and tried to cheat myself by turning away from my memories and shutting my eyes to what I felt was going to happen. . . . This state of sweet anguish would probably not have lasted long in any case. A thunderbolt cut it all short at one blow and flung me onto an altogether new path. One day when I came back to dinner after a rather long walk I learnt with astonishment that I was to dine alone, that my father had gone away and my mother was not well and did not want any dinner and had shut herself up in her bedroom. I could see by the faces of the footmen that something unusual had happened. I did not dare to question them, but I had a friend among them, a young pantry-boy, Phillip by name, who was passionately fond of poetry and an excellent performer on the guitar, and it was to him that I turned. From him I learnt that a terrible scene had taken place between my father and my mother (every word of it had been overheard in the maids’ room; much of it had been spoken in French, but Masha, our parlourmaid, had lived for five years with a dress-maker in Paris and understood every word); that my mother had accused my father of infidelity, of being on intimate terms with the young lady next door; that my father had at first tried to justify himself,

263F I R ST LOVE but afterwards had lost his temper and, in his turn, said something brutal, “something about Madam’s age,” which had made my mother cry; that my mother too had alluded to some loan given to the old princess, and spoken very unfavourably of her and of the young lady also, and that then my father had threatened her. “And the whole trouble arose,” continued Phillip, “from an anonymous letter, and no one knows who wrote it. Otherwise there’s no reason why anything should have come out at all.” “Why, was there anything?” I managed to bring out with difficulty, while my hands and feet went cold, and something began to tremble deep inside me. Phillip winked significantly. “There was. There’s no hiding these things. However careful your father was this time, he had, you see, to hire a carriage. Besides, you can’t do nothing without servants’ knowing, neither.” I dismissed Phillip and flung myself on my bed. I did not sob; I did not give myself up to despair; I did not ask myself when and how all this had happened; I did not wonder how it was I had not guessed it all before, long ago; I did not even harbour any ill will against my father. What I had learnt was more than I could cope with: this sudden revelation crushed me utterly. All was at an end. All my flowers were torn out by the roots at one fell swoop and they lay about me, strewn all over the place and trampled underfoot. Next day my mother announced that she was moving back to town. In the morning my father went into her bedroom and remained with her a long time alone. No one heard what he said to her, but my mother cried no more. She grew calm and asked for food but did not show herself, nor did she change her decision. I remember I wandered about all day, but did not go into the garden and did not once glance at the cottage. In the evening I was the witness of a most extraordinary scene: my father led Count Malevsky by the arm through the drawing room into the hall and, in the presence of the footman, said to him coldly, “A few days ago your lordship was shown the door in a certain house. I shall not enter into any kind of explanation with you, but I should like to make it quite clear to you that if you ever do me the honour of calling on me again I shall throw you out of the window. I don’t like your handwriting.” The count bowed, gritted his teeth, shrank into himself, and disappeared. Preparations began for our removal to town, to the Arbat, where we

264 Ivan Turgenev had a house. I expect my father himself did not want to stay in the country any longer, but he had evidently succeeded in persuading my mother not to make any more scenes; everything was done quietly, without haste; my mother even sent her compliments to the old princess and expressed regret that she was not able to see her before she left because of ill health. I wandered about the place like one distraught and longed for it all to be over as quickly as possible. One thought kept running through my head: How could she, a young girl and a princess, have made up her mind to do such a thing when she knew that my father was not free and when she had the opportunity of marrying Belovzorov, for instance? What did she hope for? How was it that she was not afraid of ruining her whole future? “Yes,” I thought, “this is love, this is passion, this is devotion.” And I remembered Lushin’s words: Some people find it sweet to sacrifice themselves. . . . One day I managed to catch sight of something white in one of the windows of the cottage. “Can it be Zinaida’s face?” I thought. Indeed, it was her face. I could bear it no longer. I could not part with her without a final good-bye. I took advantage of a favourable moment and went over to the cottage. In the drawing room the old princess met me with her usual slovenly and careless greeting. “Why are your people so anxious to leave the country so soon, my boy?” she said, stuffing snuff into both her nostrils. I looked at her, and a load was lifted from my heart. The word loan which Phillip had used had been torturing me. But she did not seem to suspect anything, at least I thought so at the time. Zinaida came in from the next room, pale, in a black dress, and her hair hanging loose. She took me by the hand in silence and led me away with her. “I heard your voice,” she began, “and came out at once. And do you find it so easy to leave us, you bad boy?” “I’ve come to say good-bye to you, Princess,” I said, “probably forever. I expect you must have heard we are going away.” Zinaida looked intently at me. “Yes, I have heard. Thank you for coming. I had thought that I would not see you again. Don’t think badly of me. I’ve tortured you sometimes, but all the same I’m not the sort of person you imagine me to be.” She turned away and leaned against the window. “No, I really am not like that. I know that you have a bad opinion of me.” “Me?” “Yes—you.”

265F I R ST LOVE “Me?” I repeated mournfully, and my heart trembled as it always did under the influence of her irresistible, inexpressible fascination. “Me? Believe me, Princess, that I would love and adore you to the end of my life, whatever you did and however much you tortured me.” She turned to me quickly and, flinging her arms wide, put them round my head and kissed me warmly and passionately. God knows for whom that long farewell kiss was meant, but I eagerly tasted its sweetness—I knew that it would never be repeated. “Good-bye, good-bye,” I kept repeating. She tore herself away and went out of the room. I too went away. I am not able to describe the feelings with which I left. I would not wish them ever to be repeated; but I would have considered myself unfortunate had I never experienced them at all. We moved back to town. It was some time before I could shake off the past and it was some time before I could sit down to work again. My wound healed slowly; but I bore no ill will against my father. On the contrary, he seemed to have risen in my estimation. Let psychologists explain this contradiction as best they can. One day I was walking along a boulevard and, to my indescribable joy, ran into Lushin. I liked him for his straight-forward and unhypocritical character, and, besides, he was dear to me because of the memories he awoke in me. I rushed up to him. “Aha,” he said, frowning, “so it’s you, young man. Come, let’s have a look at you. You’re still as sallow as ever, but there’s no longer any silly nonsense in your eyes. You look like a man and not like a lap-dog. That’s good. Well, what are you doing? Working?” I heaved a sigh. I did not want to tell a lie, but I was ashamed to tell the truth. “Well, never mind, don’t lose heart. The main thing is to lead a normal life and not to give in to every passing fancy. For what’s the use of it? Wherever the tide may carry you, it will all be no good. A man must stand on his feet, even if he has to stand on a rock. As you see, I’ve got a bad cough. . . . And Belovzorov—have you heard?” “No. What is it?” “Vanished without a trace. They say he’s gone off to the Caucasus. Let it be a lesson to you, young man, and it’s all because people don’t know how to part in time, how to break out of the net. You seem to have got out of it unscathed. Mind you don’t get caught again. Good-bye.” “I shan’t be caught,” I thought. “I shall never see her again.”

266 Ivan Turgenev But I was destined to see Zinaida once more. My father used to go riding every day. He had an excellent roan English mare, with a long slender neck and long legs, an indefatigable and vicious animal. She was called Electric. No one could ride her except my father. One day he came into my room in a good humour, something which had not happened to him for a long time: he was about to go for his ride and had already put on his spurs. I began to beg him to take me with him. “I’d rather have a game of leap-frog with you,” my father replied, “for you’ll never keep up with me on your pony.” “I will. I’ll wear spurs too.” “Oh, all right.” We set off. I had a black, shaggy pony, sturdy and very spirited; it is true he had to gallop at full speed when Electric was in full trot, but all the same I did not lag behind. I have never seen a horseman who could ride as well as my father; he sat on his horse so beautifully and with such effortless ease that it seemed that the horse herself felt it and took pride in him. We rode through all the boulevards, rode across Devichy Square, took several fences (at first I used to be afraid of the jumps, but my father despised timid people, and I stopped being afraid), crossed the Moskva River twice, and I was beginning to think that we were returning home, particularly as my father himself remarked that my horse was getting tired, when suddenly he turned away from me at the Crimean Ford and galloped off along the bank. I rode after him. On reaching a high pile of stacked-up old timber, he jumped nimbly off Electric, told me to dismount, and, giving me his bridle to hold, asked me to wait for him there at the stack, while he himself turned into a small back street and disappeared. I began to walk up and down along the bank of the river, leading the horses and scolding Electric, who kept tossing her reins, shaking herself, snorting, and neighing; whenever I stopped, she kept pawing the ground and biting my pony in the neck, whinnying—in short, she behaved like the spoilt thoroughbred she was. My father did not come back. An unpleasant dampness came drifting from the river; a fine rain began to fall softly, covering with tiny dark spots the stupid grey timber logs which I kept walking past backwards and forwards and which, by that time, I was heartily sick of. I was beginning to feel depressed, but still my father did not come. A Finnish policeman, who was also grey all over, with a huge, old-fashioned shako like a pot on his head and with a halberd

267F I R ST LOVE (why on earth a policeman in such an old-fashioned attire should be patrolling the bank of the river Moskva is quite beyond me!) approached me, and turning his face, wrinkled like an old woman’s, towards me, said, “What are you doing here with them horses, sir? Come, let me hold them for you.” I made no answer; he asked me for some tobacco. To get rid of him (besides, I was getting very impatient), I took a few steps in the direction in which my father had disappeared, walked down to the end of the lane, turned the corner, and stopped dead. In the street, about forty paces from me, stood my father in front of the open window of a small wooden house; he had his back to me and was leaning with his chest over the window-sill; inside the house, half-hidden by a curtain, sat a woman in a dark dress, talking to my father; the woman was Zinaida. I was thunderstruck. That, I confess, I had not expected. My first impulse was to run away. “Father will look round,” I thought, “and I shall be done for.” But a strange feeling, a feeling stronger than curiosity, stronger even than jealousy, stronger than fear, stopped me. I began to watch. I did my best to hear what they were saying. My father seemed to be insisting on something. Zinaida would not agree. I can see her face just as if it were all happening now—sad, serious, beautiful, and with an indescribable imprint of devotion, sadness, love, and a kind of despair— I can find no other word for it. She uttered words of one syllable; she did not raise her eyes but just smiled—submissively and obstinately. It was by this smile alone that I recognized my Zinaida as I used to know her. My father shrugged and set his hat straight on his head, which was always a sign of impatience with him. Then I heard the words: “Vous devez vous séparer de cette . . .” Zinaida drew herself up and stretched out her hand. . . . Suddenly something quite unbelievable took place before my very eyes: my father all of a sudden raised his riding crop, with which he had been flicking the dust from the skirts of his coat, and I heard the sound of a sharp blow across her arm, which was bared to the elbow. I just managed to restrain myself from crying out, while Zinaida gave a start, looked at my father without uttering a word, and, raising her arm to her lips, kissed the scar that showed crimson on it. My father flung away the crop and, running up the steps rapidly, rushed into the house. Zinaida turned round, tossed back her head, and, with arms outstretched, also moved away from the window. Faint with fright, and my heart gripped with a kind of bewildered hor- ror, I rushed back, and running down the lane, nearly letting go of Elec- tric, returned to the bank of the river. I simply did not know what to

268 Ivan Turgenev make of it. I knew that my cold and reserved father was sometimes given to fits of fury, but for all that I could not possibly make any sense of what I had just seen. But at the same time I felt sure that however long I lived, I could never forget Zinaida’s gesture, her look, her smile; and that image of her, this new image which had so suddenly arisen before me, was forever imprinted on my memory. I gazed vacantly at the river and did not notice that tears were streaming down my cheeks. “They are beating her,” I thought, “beating, beating. . .” “Hello there, what are you doing? Give me the horse!” I heard my father’s voice behind me. Mechanically I gave him the bridle. He leapt on Electric’s back. The horse, chilled with standing, reared on its hind legs and leapt forward about six feet, but my father soon curbed her; he drove the spurs into her sides and hit her on the neck with his fist. “Damn, no crop,” he murmured. I recalled the swish and the blow from the same crop a short while before, and shuddered. “Where have you put it?” I asked my father after a short pause. My father made no answer and galloped on. I overtook him. I simply had to see his face. “You weren’t bored waiting for me, were you?” he muttered through his teeth. “A little. Where did you drop your crop?” I asked him again. My father glanced quickly at me. “I did not drop it,” he said. “I threw it away.” He sank into thought and lowered his head, and it was then that I saw for the first and almost for the last time how much tenderness and pity his stern features could express. He galloped on again, and this time I could not overtake him; I arrived home a quarter of an hour after him. “This is love,” I again said to myself, sitting at night at my writing desk on which my books and exercise books had begun to make their appearance. “This is passion. How was it possible not to feel resentment, to suffer a blow from any hand—even the dearest! But it seems one can if one is in love . . . and I—I imagined . . .” I had grown much older during the last month—and my love, with all its excitements and sufferings, struck me as something very small and childish and trivial beside that other, unknown something which I could scarcely grasp and which frightened me like an unfamiliar, beautiful, but menacing face one tries in vain to make out in the gathering darkness.

269F I R ST LOVE That night I had a strange and terrible dream. I dreamt that I went into a low, dark room. My father, whip in hand, was standing there and stamping angrily with his feet; Zinaida was crouching in a corner, and there was a red scar, not on her arm, but on her forehead, and behind them both rose Belovzorov, covered with blood, and he opened his pale lips and shook his fist angrily at my father. Two months later I entered the university, and six months after that my father died (of a stroke) in Petersburg, where he had just moved with my mother and me. A few days before his death he received a letter from Moscow which upset him greatly. He went to beg some favour from my mother and, I was told, he even wept, he—my father! On the morning of the day he had his stroke, he had begun a letter to me in French. “My son,” he wrote, “fear the love of woman, fear that ecstasy, that poison . . .” My mother, after his death, sent a considerable sum of money to Moscow. Four years passed. I had just left the university and had not quite made up my mind what to do with myself, at what door to knock; for the time being, I just did nothing. One fine evening I met Maydanov at the theatre. By that time he had got married and joined the civil service, but I found him quite unchanged. He still went into raptures for no obvious reason and grew depressed just as suddenly. “You know,” he said to me, “Mrs. Dolsky is here.” “What Mrs. Dolsky?” “Why, you’ve not forgotten, have you? The former Princess Zasyekin. The girl we were all in love with—and you, too. Remember, in the country near the Neskoochny Park?” “Is she married to a Dolsky?” “Yes.” “And is she here, in the theatre?” “No, she’s in Petersburg. She arrived a few days ago. She’s going abroad.” “What sort of man is her husband?” “Oh, a splendid fellow. A man of property. He’s a colleague of mine in Moscow. You understand, after that affair—I expect you must know all about it”—Maydanov smiled significantly—”it was not so easy for her to make a match. There were consequences—but with her brains, nothing is impossible. Go and see her. I am sure that she’ll be very pleased to see you. She is prettier than ever.” Maydanov gave me Zinaida’s address. She was staying in the Hotel

270 Ivan Turgenev Demuth. Old memories stirred in me. . . . I made up my mind to call on my former flame. But all sorts of things prevented me from calling on her. A week passed, then another; and when at last I went to the Hotel Demuth and asked for Mrs. Dolsky I was told that she had died four days before, quite suddenly, in childbirth. I felt a sudden stab in my heart. The thought that I could have seen her and did not, and would never see her again—that bitter thought drove its sting into me with all the force of an irrepressible reproach. “She is dead,” I repeated, staring vacantly at the hotel porter, and, going out into the street quietly, I walked on without knowing myself where I was going. All my past suddenly rose up and stood before me. So that was the end of this young, passionate, and brilliant life! That was the goal to which, in its haste and agitation, it aspired. When I thought of this, I conjured up those dear features, those eyes, those curls—in the narrow box, in the dank underground darkness, quite near, not far from me who was still living, and perhaps only a few paces from my father. I thought of all this; I exerted my imagination; and meanwhile— From lips indifferent, the tidings Of death I heard, and, indifferent To it. I listened— sounded in my heart. Oh, youth, youth! You don’t care for anything, you seem to own all the treasures of the world; even sorrow amuses you, even grief becomes you; you are self-confident and insolent; you say, “I alone am alive—look at me!”—even while your days pass away and vanish without trace and without number, and everything in you melts away like wax in the sun, like snow. . . . And perhaps the whole secret of your charm lies not in your ability to do everything, but in your ability to think that you will do everything—lies just in the way you are scattering to the winds the powers which you could never have used for anything else—in the fact that each of us seriously considers himself to have been a spendthrift, seriously believes that he has a right to say, “Oh, what could I not have done if I had not wasted my time!” So I too—what did I hope for? What did I expect? What rich promise did the future hold out to me when—with scarcely a sigh, with no more than a feeling of bleak despondency—I bade farewell to the phantom of my first love, risen for a fleeting moment?” And what came of it all—of all I had hoped for? Now, when evening shadows are beginning to fall on my life, what have I left that is fresher,

271F I R ST LOVE that is dearer to me than the memories of the storm that came and passed over so swiftly one spring morning? But I am not quite fair to myself. Even then, in those thoughtless days of my youth, I did not remain deaf to the mournful voice which called to me, to the solemn sound which came to me from beyond the grave. I remember how a few days after I had learnt of Zinaida’s death, I myself, in response to an irresistible impulse, was present at the death of a poor old woman who lived in the same house with us. Covered with rags, lying on hard boards, with a sack for a pillow under her head, she was dying a hard and painful death. All her life had been spent in a bitter struggle with daily want. She had known no joy; she had not tasted the honey of happiness; and one would have thought that she of all people would have been glad to die, and thus to gain freedom and rest. And yet, so long as her frail body held out, so long as her breast was still rising and falling in agony under the icy hand that weighed upon her, so long as there was still strength left in her body, the old woman kept crossing herself and kept whispering, “Lord, forgive me my sins,” and only after the last spark of consciousness had gone did the look of fear and terror of death disappear from her eyes. . . . And I remember that there, by the deathbed of that poor old woman, I felt terrified for Zinaida, and I longed to say a prayer for her, for my father— and for myself. Translated by David Magarshack.

272 Fyodor Dostoevsky 1821–1881 Fyodor Dostoevsky was born in Moscow on October 30, 1821(Old Style). He studied in Moscow and at the School of Military Engineers in St. Petersburg. After three years he resigned a commission in the army and began to write. A first novel, Poor Folk, published in 1845, made his name at once. The Double, a brilliant Dickensian study of paranoia, was less well liked and caused a quarrel with the liberal writers, including Turgenev. Dostoevsky allied himself with a group of theoretical socialists, the Petrashevsky circle. In 1849 they were all arrested and ordered deported. A false sentence of death was read to them. At the last moment, with rifles leveled at their breasts, they were ordered away to the penal settlement at Omsk. Five years later, his epilepsy aggravated by these experiences, Dostoevsky was transferred to the army. In 1859 he was allowed to go back to St. Petersburg. The Friend of the Family, his first novel after a long silence, was published in that year. In Siberia he had married Marya Isaeva. The House of the Dead and The Insulted and the Injured appeared in the early 1860’s. Dostoevsky and his brother started a successful review. It was suppressed and never recovered. He traveled abroad with Pauline Suslova, haunted by his compulsion to gamble. Letters from the Notes from the artist: “. . . an atmosphere of fantasy and dreams in a Russian urban scene surrounds the portrait of Dostoevsky in his uniform. The other figure is that of Raskolnikov the murderer in Crime and Punishment.”

274 Fyodor Dostoevsky Underworld, in 1864, was the first of his important later works. His first wife having died, he married Anna Snitkina and went abroad again to evade his creditors. Between 1866 and 1871, he produced Crime and Punishment, The Gambler, The Idiot, The Eternal Husband, and The Possessed. In the latter year he went back to Russia and edited a conservative weekly. Later he conducted a prosperous journal of his own, An Author’s Diary. A Raw Youth was published in 1875, and in 1880 came the last great work of his maturity, The Brothers Karamazov. He died on January 28, 1881. We can begin White Nights with the perfect assurance that we are in the hands of a great storyteller. True, Dostoevsky has many other facets as a writer. Politically, from first to last, he has been called everything from a radical to a reactionary. As a psychologist, normal or more often than not clinical, he ranks among the first in literature. This talent is vivid enough in all his work and amazing in the best of it. He was an important journalist in his time, though much of his occasional writing is all but unreadable now except to students of Russian history. In his early works at least—the later ones were often written in great haste—he showed a decided sense of literary structure. He emerged from prison an intense Christian. Christianity became fused for him with his mystical sense of Russian nationalism. As leader of the nativist school, he could be the most provincial of Russians. At the same time, his vision was broad enough to contain the whole of humanity. He was a “profound Jobean and Promethean questioner.” But from beginning to end, in all his fiction, the story— and it is usually a powerful one—comes first. This is true of White Nights (an idiom meaning “sleepless nights”). The scene is St. Petersburg in summer. The story moves across four nights and the morning of the following day. It is—on the face of it, at least—the simplest of love conflicts. The girl Nastenka and two nameless young men make the three points of the triangle. Behind this simplicity we glimpse the moving shadows of human impulse, of needing and giving, of sincerity and delusion, of love and self- love. When we first meet the narrator, he is, characteristically, alone. He tells us that he has no friends. Instead, his imagination is peo-

275Fyodor Dostoevsky pled with the whole outdoor life of his city. Certain faces have become old acquaintances. He knows the route of every inhabitant. Even the houses are personified for him. He shares in their changes of paint and weather. But now he discovers why so many people seem to be missing, why he has felt deserted. St. Petersburg is moving out to the country for the summer. At this point of extreme loneliness he meets Nastenka. Though he does not know it at first, she too is lonely, she too has come to a crisis in her life. So their mutual need is intense. They tell each other their life stories—and his, at least, seems to us a little too long. But out of it we get the sense of powerful fantasy, of a poet without poems. He and Nastenka laugh and cry. They seem utterly natural. We believe in their wish to be completely sincere with each other. But are they? Sincerity is no guarantee of self-knowledge. Skeptics that we are, at first we may even refuse to believe Nastenka’s story about the other young man. She is a lonely girl. Is it not possible, we think, that she may have invented this story to make the narrator jealous, to make herself more desirable in his eyes? But we see that we have misjudged her. She really tries to be kind. She warns him not to fall in love with her. But it is useless. He loves her and tries generously to help her. She too is generous. They make plans. He will move into her house and take the room and place of her former lover. So we are touched by the sense of bad faith, of guilt, in her letter on the last morning. Do we feel that she is guilty of betraying him? Or is it only that the unknown and unknowable chances of life have been too much for them?

276 White Nights A TALE OF LOVE FROM THE REMINISCENCES OF A DREAMER Could he be born from the start, If only for a fleeting moment, To be so dear to your heart? IVAN TURGENEV THE FIRST NIGHT t was a marvelous night, the sort of night one only experiences when one is young. The sky was so bright, and there were so many stars that, gazing upward, one couldn’t help wondering how so many whimsical, wicked people could live under such a sky. This too is a question that would only occur to the young, to the very young; but may God make you wonder like that as often as possible! Now, mentioning whimsical, angry people makes me think how well I behaved that day. A strange anguish had tormented me since early morning. I suddenly had the impression that I had been left all alone, that everyone was shrinking away from me, avoiding me. You are, of course, right to ask who that “everyone” is, for although I’ve lived in Petersburg for eight years now, I haven’t managed to make a single friend. But what do I need friends or acquaintances for? As it is, I’m acquainted with all of Petersburg. And that’s why I had the impression of being abandoned by everyone when the whole city rose and left for the summer. I was afraid to be left alone, and for three days I roamed dejectedly through the city, unable to understand what was happening to me. Whether I went to Nevsky Avenue, to the park, or wandered along the embankments, I never came across the people I was accustomed to meet in certain spots at

277WH ITE N I G HTS certain hours all year round. They, of course, didn’t know me; but I knew them, all right. I knew them intimately, and having studied their faces, I rejoiced with them when they were cheerful and grieved with them when they were downcast. I almost became friends with a little old man whom I met every day at a certain time on the Fontanka Embankment. His face was so dignified and thoughtful; he carried a knotty walking cane with a gold top in his right hand, swinging his left arm, and was constantly mumbling something inaudible. He even noticed me and took a keen interest in my existence. I’m sure he must’ve been quite upset when I did not appear at a given hour on the embankment. That’s why sometimes we almost exchanged greetings, especially when we both happened to be in a good mood. Recently, two days went by without our seeing each other, and on the third day, our hands almost shot up to our hats, but thank God, we came to our senses, dropped our hands, and passed by with mutual sympathy. I’m acquainted with houses too. As I walk up a street, each house seems to have darted ahead and to be waiting for me, looking at me out of all its windows, almost saying: “Hello! How are you getting on? I’m fine myself. And do you know what? They’re going to add another story to me in May!” Or: “How are you? Well, me, I’ll have to undergo some repairs tomorrow.” Or: “You know, I almost burned down last night. It gave me such a fright!” And other things of that sort. Among houses, I have my favorites. Some are intimate friends. One had decided to undergo a course of treatment with an architect during the summer. I’ll make a point of visiting him every day, in case the treatment turns out to be fatal, God forbid! I’ll never forget what happened to one very pretty, rosy little house. Although he was rather haughtily distant with his clumsy neighbors, that little stone house used to look at me so nicely that I always felt glad as I passed by. But last week, as I was walking along that street, my friend looked at me dejectedly, and I heard his plaintive cry: “They’re painting me yellow!” Ah, the criminals! The barbarians! They spared nothing; neither the columns nor the cornices, and my friend became yellow as a canary. I nearly had an attack of jaundice myself, and I still haven’t been able to go back and visit my poor disfigured friend painted in the color of the Celestial Empire. So you see, that’s what I meant by being acquainted with all Petersburg. As I said, I’d been uneasy for three days and now I’d discovered why. Things didn’t feel right in the street—this one was missing, that one was missing, and where on earth was such-and-such? And at home, too, I

278 Fyodor Dostoevsky wasn’t quite myself. For two whole evenings I’d tried to determine what I was missing in my corner, why I was so ill at ease there. Puzzled, I kept examining my green walls with their black soot stains, the ceiling covered with cobwebs that Matryona cultivates with such eminent success. I examined every piece of furniture, every single chair, to see whether the trouble wasn’t hidden just there. For I know that I can be badly upset if a chair is not in exactly the same place as it was the day before. I also looked at the window. But all in vain. I even decided to call in Matryona and give her a fatherly scolding about the cobwebs and about her slovenliness in general. But she only looked at me, surprised, and left without answering a word; the cobwebs remained unmolested. It was only this morning that I realized what was happening. Why, they were deserting me for their summer places. I must apologize for this trivial way of putting it, but I can’t be bothered with style just now, because everyone is either leaving Petersburg or has already left it; because every respectable-looking man hailing a cab in the street is thereby, before my very eyes, turning himself into a venerable pater familias, who, having taken care of his usual duties, departs, just as he is, to join his family in their country house; because every passer-by in the street has a special look about him that almost audibly announces to the world at large: “I’m only passing through town—in a couple of hours or so, I’ll be back in the country.” If slender, sugar-white fingers drum on the inside of a window pane, if that window then opens, and a pretty face peeps out to buy some potted plants from a street flower vendor—I immediately imagine that she’s just buying them to pass the time and not at all to enjoy spring and flowers in a stuffy city apartment, and that anyway the people in that apartment will leave for the country and take the flowers along. I’ve become so perspicacious that I can tell with certitude from people’s faces what kind of summer houses they live in. Those from the Rocky and Apothecary Isles, or from the places along Peterhof Road, are recognizable by the studied exquisiteness of their manners, the elegance of their summer suits, and the magnificence of the carriages in which they drive into the city. Those from Pargolov and places beyond always impress me with their solidity and their down-to-earth air. A visitor from Krestovsky Island is distinguishable by his imperturbable cheerfulness. Whether I happen to meet a long caravan of movers’ wagons loaded with mountains of furniture—tables, chairs, sofas (Turkish or otherwise), and all sorts of household junk, on top of which, moreover, a thin female cook is enthroned, looking after her master’s belongings like a nesting bird after

279WH ITE N I G HTS her eggs—or watch the boats and barges, heavily loaded with household goods, sliding down the Neva or the Fontanka toward the Black Stream or the Islands—in my eyes, the wagons and barges multiply by tens and hundreds, and I have the impression that everything has risen up and started moving in long files out of the city to the countryside, that Petersburg will soon be a desert. So, in the end, I feel offended, ashamed, and sad. I have absolutely nowhere to go and no reason to go out of town. I long to leave on any wagon, to drive off with any gentleman hailing a cabbie. But no one has invited me. They seem to have completely forgotten me, as if I really were a stranger to them! I’d been walking for hours and, as usual, I’d lost track of where I was, when I suddenly realized I’d reached the city limits. I immediately felt happy and, without hesitation, passed beyond the barrier and found myself walking between cultivated fields and meadows. I didn’t feel tired at all. On the contrary, every joint in me was as relaxed as if a load had been lifted from my shoulders. All who drove by smiled at me engagingly, almost bowing to me. They looked pleased about something and the whole lot of them were smoking cigars. And I too was happier than I’d ever been before. Such was the impact of nature upon me, a semi-invalid city dweller who’d almost suffocated within the city walls, that I felt almost as if I’d found myself in Italy. There’s something inexpressibly moving in our Petersburg countryside when, with the arrival of spring, it suddenly reveals itself in all its might and with all its God-given gifts; when it dresses up, adorns itself with bright, multicolored flowers. . . . It makes me think of a weak, frail, sickly young girl, usually regarded with pity, sometimes with compassionate love, and sometimes not even noticed, who for one moment, as if by accident, suddenly becomes immensely beautiful; and, struck and charmed, you can’t help wondering what force could have lighted the flame in those sad, dreamy eyes. What has caused the blood to rush to those pale, sunken cheeks? What has brought this passion to her delicate features? Why does her bosom heave like that? What has so suddenly communicated vigor, life, and beauty to the poor girl’s face; given it that radiant smile; produced that glittering, sparkling laughter? You look around, you try to guess. But then it’s all gone, and the next day perhaps, you’ll meet her usual pensive, abstract gaze again, recognize her pale face and the timid humility of her movements; you’ll even detect remorse and signs of some deadening anguish and shame over that momentary exaltation. . . . And you’re sorry that the ephemeral beauty has faded so

280 Fyodor Dostoevsky rapidly, so irretrievably, that it flashed so deceptively and pointlessly before your eyes—you’re sorry, for you didn’t even have time to fall in love with her. . . . But, even so, the night was better than the day! This is what happened. It was very late when I got back into the city. As I approached the house I live in, it struck ten. I was walking along the embankment; at that hour there was no one around, for I live in a remote part of town. I sang as I walked, for when I’m happy, I always hum something—as does every happy, friendless man who has no one with whom to share his happiness. Then suddenly the most unexpected thing happened to me. I saw a woman leaning against the railing along the embankment. She appeared to be gazing attentively at the murky water. She wore a ravishing little yellow hat and an elegant black cape. “She must be young and dark-haired,” I decided. I don’t think she heard my footsteps, and she didn’t even stir when I passed her, holding my breath, my heart beating wildly. “Strange,” I thought, “she must be quite lost in thought—” Suddenly I stopped dead. Stifled sobs reached my ears. Yes, that was it—she was crying. Again I heard the girl trying to catch her breath. Ah, God! My heart contracted with pity, and shy though I am with women, I retraced my steps and walked up to her. I’m sure I’d have exclaimed “Madame!” had I not been so acutely aware that this form of address has already been used so often in Russian novels with a high-society background. That was all that stopped me. But while I was searching for an alternative approach, the girl recovered, turned her head, glanced at me, looked away, and darted off along the embankment. I followed her. She must have realized, for she turned her back to the water, crossed the street, and went along the opposite sidewalk. I didn’t dare follow her across the street. My heart was quivering like that of a bird held in a man’s hand. Then something came to my assistance. I saw a man walking on the other side of the street, not far from the girl. He wore a frock coat, and seemed to have reached an age of respectability, although there was nothing respectable about his gait. He was staggering and stumbling along, guiding himself by leaning against the walls. Now the girl was moving lightly and apprehensively, as girls do at night when they don’t wish strange men to offer to see them home; the staggering gentleman never would have caught up with her if he hadn’t changed his tactics (for which I thank my lucky stars). But suddenly, without uttering a word, the man set off at a gallop. She

281WH ITE N I G HTS darted ahead with quickened, fearful steps, but the swaying figure kept gaining on her. He came closer and closer, then he caught up with her. The girl let out a cry, and—I thank my lucky stars again for placing my excellent knobby walking stick in my right hand. In no time, I was on the opposite sidewalk; in no time, the uninvited gentleman made a practical appraisal of the situation, took into consideration the unanswerable argument in my hand, slowed down, and fell back. And only when he felt there was a safe distance between us did he voice his indignation in no uncertain terms. But his words hardly reached us. “If,” I said to the girl, “you will allow me to take your arm, that man won’t dare annoy you again.” Silently she allowed me. Her hand was still trembling from fear and her earlier emotions. Ah, what blessings I wished at that moment upon the unwelcome gentleman! I squinted at her discreetly. She was terribly pretty. Her hair was dark, just as I’d guessed. Tears glistened on her black eyelashes, whether from her recent fright or from her sorrow, I didn’t know, but a smile was already sparkling on her lips. She glanced at me out of the corner of her eye, blushed, and looked down. “Now, you see, you shouldn’t have spurned me like that. Nothing would’ve happened if I’d been at your side.” “But I didn’t know you; I thought you too . . .” “Do you feel you know me now?” “A little. For instance, I know you’re trembling. Tell me why.” “Ah, you’ve guessed right from the start!” I said, delighted that she should turn out to be so clever—never a drawback in a woman, as long as she’s pretty. “Yes, you’ve seen through me straight away. I’m afraid of women, and it’s that fear that makes me tremble, just as it made you tremble a few moments ago when that gentleman frightened you. I’m frightened now, all right. It’s like a dream, although I’ve never actually dreamed that I’d be talking like this to a woman.” “Really?” “Yes. And if you feel my arm tremble, it’s because it has never yet been held by a pretty hand like yours. I’m quite unused to being with women. In fact, I’ve never got used to them. I live all alone. I don’t even know how to talk to women. For instance, I don’t know if I haven’t said something stupid to you. Please, tell me frankly—I promise I won’t be offended.” “No, no, on the contrary. And since you want me to be frank, let me tell you that women like your sort of shyness; I’ll even tell you that I like

282 Fyodor Dostoevsky it too, and I won’t ask you to leave me until we’re at my doorstep.” “If you go on saying things like that,” I said, out of breath with enthusiasm, “I’ll lose my shyness and, along with it, my advantage. . . .” “Advantage? Advantage to what end? Ah, now you’ve said something I don’t like.” “I am sorry, it just slipped off my tongue. You can’t really expect that, at such a moment, I shouldn’t wish that . . .” “What? Wish that I should like you?” “Yes, that’s it. But please, try to understand: I’m twenty-six already and I’ve never known anyone closely. So how can I be expected to be good at speaking to people? How can I say things well and to the point? Besides, isn’t it better for you when everything is out in the open? For I don’t know how to be silent when my heart is talking. Well, what’s the difference? But believe me, I’ve never, never spoken to any woman. Never. I’ve never known one. I’ve only gone around dreaming that one day I might meet someone. If you only knew how many times I’ve fallen in love that way. . . .” “But how’s that, who did you fall in love with?” “Why, no one in particular, just with the ideal woman, the one I’d dreamed of. I can dream up whole novels, you know. Oh, you really have no idea about me! Of course, as you can well imagine, I have come across two or three women in my time. But what sort of women were they? They were such housewives that— But now you’ll laugh when I tell you that I planned for a long time to address some aristocratic lady in the street. When she was alone, of course. Talk to her shyly, respectfully, passionately; tell her that I was perishing in my loneliness; beseech her not to send me away; say that it was impossible for me to get to know any other woman; persuade her that it was even the duty of a woman not to spurn the timid approach of one so unhappy; convince her that, finally, all I wanted from her was a few understanding, sisterly words, and that she shouldn’t just turn her back on me, but should believe what I told her—then she might laugh at me if she wished, so long as she said one or two words of hope, only two words, then, if she wished, we’d never meet again! . . . I see you’re laughing. . . . Well, that’s why I told you about it, after all.” “Don’t be offended. I’m only laughing because you’re your own worst enemy. If you’d tried you’d have succeeded, maybe even in the street. The simpler, the easier. . . . No decent woman, unless she was dismally stupid or happened to be very irritated about something at that particular moment, would have refused you the two words for which you begged

283WH ITE N I G HTS with such humility. . . . Although, after all, she might very well have taken you for a madman. I was thinking of how I would have reacted, but then I have quite a good idea of what life is all about.” “Oh, thank you, thank you!” I cried. “You have no idea what you’re doing for me!” “All right, all right. But tell me, what made you think I was the type of woman with whom . . . well, who would be worthy of . . . your attention, your friendship? How did you know that I was not just another housewife, as you put it? What made you decide to speak to me?” “What made me—why, you were alone, and that man was most indiscreet, and it’s nighttime. . . . I couldn’t have done anything else.” “No, no, before that, on the other sidewalk. Weren’t you thinking of speaking to me?” “On the other sidewalk? I really don’t know what to say. I was happy today. I was walking along and singing. I went beyond the city limits. I’d never before experienced such happy moments. And you—please excuse me, I may have imagined it, but I thought you were crying, and I couldn’t bear it. . . . My heart shrank. . . . Ah, God, why shouldn’t I be entitled to grieve with you? Why is it a sin for me to feel brotherly compassion for your sorrow? . . . Excuse me, I said compassion. . . . Well, I don’t see why it should offend you if I couldn’t resist my impulse to come over and talk to you.” “Enough, don’t talk of it any more.” She lowered her head, and her fingers pressed my arm. “It’s my fault for bringing it up, and I’m so pleased that it wasn’t a mistake. . . . But we’re almost at my place. I must turn here, into that street. It’s only a few steps from here. Good-by now, and thank you very much!” “But is it possible that we’ll never meet again? Can we leave it like this?” “But you said you were only after two words,” the girl said, laughing, “and now you . . . However, who can tell, perhaps we’ll meet again some day.” “I’ll be waiting here tomorrow. Forgive me, I seem to be demanding things already.” “Yes, you’re quite impatient, and you are almost demanding things—” “Listen, listen to me,” I interrupted her, “and forgive me if I say something wrong. You see, I can’t help coming here tomorrow. I’m simply a dreamer who has little real life, and moments like this are so rare in my existence that I must repeat them again and again in my thoughts. You’ll stay in my thoughts throughout the night—throughout a whole

284 Fyodor Dostoevsky year. I’ll be here without fail tomorrow, in this very spot, at this very time—and I’ll be happy thinking of what happened today. Already this spot is dear to me. I have two or three spots like this in Petersburg. Once I even cried, like you. . . . Well, how can I know? Perhaps a few minutes ago you too were crying at the thought . . . Ah, forgive me, I’m forgetting myself again. . . . I simply meant, perhaps you were once especially happy here somehow. . . .” “All right then,” the girl said, “I suppose I’ll be here tomorrow night too. At ten. I see I can’t stop you, and I have to come here anyway. But don’t think I’ve made a date with you. I warn you: I have to be here for my own reasons. So I may as well tell you now: I won’t mind if you’re here too, because that may save me an unpleasant incident like tonight’s. But that’s just incidental. To be brief, I’d be very pleased to see you . . . to say a couple of words to you. But I don’t want you to think badly of me. You mustn’t think that I make dates so easily. I would never have agreed to meet you again had it not been for . . . No, let it remain a secret! Only, from now on, let’s reach an agreement.” “An agreement? Just name it! I agree to anything in advance!” I said with ardor. “I assure you, I’ll be docile, respectful . . . you know me.” “It’s because I know you that I want you to come tomorrow,” the girl said, laughing. “And I know you fully. But if you come, it must be on my terms. First—and please do as I ask, for I’m being completely frank about it—don’t fall in love with me. You mustn’t, believe me. But I’d like us to be friends. Here, let’s shake hands on it. But, remember, no falling in love!” “I swear!” I shouted, taking her hand. “Stop, don’t swear so readily. I know very well that you can burst into flame in a second, like gunpowder—forgive me for saying so. Ah, if you knew . . . I, too—I have had no one with whom I could exchange a word, of whom to ask advice. Where could I look for advisors? Certainly not in the street. But you’re an exception. I know you as if we’d been friends for twenty years. Am I right in thinking you won’t let me down?” “You’ll see. Only I don’t know how I’ll keep myself alive, waiting for twenty-four hours.” “Sleep deeply. Good night, and remember I’ve put my trust in you. But you put it so well yourself: Does one really have to give an account of every feeling, even of brotherly compassion? You know, you put it so well that right away I decided to confide in you.” “For heaven’s sake, what is it? What?”

285WH ITE N I G HTS “Tomorrow. Let it remain a secret for the moment. It’s better for you that way; at least from a distance all this may resemble a romance. I may tell you tomorrow and I may not. I’ll talk to you some more; well become better acquainted first.” “Well, I—I’ll tell you everything about myself tomorrow! But it’s as if a miracle were happening to me. Where am I? Oh, God! Tell me, are you glad you didn’t get angry with me and chase me away at first, as another woman would have done? It took you two minutes to make me happy once and for all. Yes, happy. Who knows, perhaps you’ve made me accept myself, maybe you’ve resolved my doubts. Perhaps such moods come over me that . . . Well, I’ll tell you everything tomorrow, you’ll know all. . . .” “Good, I accept; and you’ll begin. . . .” “Agreed.” “Good night.” “Good night.” We parted. I walked around all night. I couldn’t make myself go home. I was so happy. . . . Tomorrow! THE SECOND NIGHT “So you survived after all,” she said to me, laughing as she pressed my hands. “I’ve been waiting for two hours. You can’t imagine how I got through the day.” “I know, I know. . . . But let’s talk business. Do you know why I really came? Certainly not to talk nonsense as we did last night. You know, from now on, we’ll act more intelligently. I thought a lot about it last night.” “In what? More intelligently in what? I agree to whatever you say, but to be absolutely sincere, it seems to me I’ve never been cleverer than now in my whole life.” “Is that so? Well, in the first place, I’d like you to stop squeezing my hands like that, and in the second, I wish to inform you that today I’ve given quite a bit of thought to you.” “And what conclusions have you reached?” “Conclusions? Well, I decided to start all over again because I concluded that I still knew nothing about you, that yesterday I acted like a child, a little girl—and I ended up blaming everything on my over-sensitive heart. In other words, I ended up praising myself—the way

286 Fyodor Dostoevsky we always end when we begin analyzing ourselves. Now, to correct that mistake, I’ve decided to find out every little thing about you. And since I have no other way of finding out, you’ll just have to supply me with all the information. So, what manner of man are you? Quick, start telling me your story!” “My story!” I said, becoming alarmed. “What makes you think I have a story to tell in the first place? In fact I don’t have any—” She laughed. “But how could you live and have no story to tell?” “So far I’ve lived without any stories at all. I’ve lived keeping to myself, as they say, which means that I’ve been completely alone. Alone, all alone—do you understand what that means?” “What do you mean alone? You never saw anyone?” “No, I saw people, of course. But still I was all alone.” “What then? You mean you never spoke to anyone?” “Strictly speaking, I didn’t.” “But who are you, anyway? Tell me! No, wait—I think I can guess. I’ll bet you have a grandmother, as I do. Mine is blind, and she doesn’t let me go anywhere—I almost forget how to talk. A couple of years ago, when I misbehaved, she felt she couldn’t control me any longer, so she called me over to her and pinned my dress to hers with a safety pin. Sometimes we sit like that for days at a time, she knitting a sock despite her blindness and me, at her side, sewing or reading something aloud to her. So, I’ve been pinned to someone for two years, a rather strange situation, don’t you think?” “Ah, that’s really awful! But I don’t have a grandmother.” “You haven’t? Then how can you sit home all the time?” “Listen, shall I tell you who I am?” “Yes, of course.” “Shall I tell you exactly?” “Yes, exactly.” “All right then, I’m a queer fish.” “So, you’re a queer fish, are you? What sort of queer fish?” the girl said, exploding with laughter, as if she had been holding it in for a whole year. “Ah, you’re really great fun to be with! Let’s sit down on that bench over there. Nobody every passes there, so you can tell me your story without being overheard. Go on now, I want to hear it! You can’t make me believe you have nothing to tell; you’re just being secretive. First of all, what’s a queer fish?” “A queer fish? A queer fish is a ridiculous man, a man unlike others,” I

287WH ITE N I G HTS said, infected by her childish laughter. “He’s a sort of freak. Listen, do you know what a dreamer is, for instance?” “A dreamer? Well, how could I not know what a dreamer is? I suppose I’m one myself. You can’t imagine what things go through my head sometimes as I sit next to my grandmother! I plunge into my dreams, and sometimes, when I really get going, I reach a point where I marry a Chinese prince. . . . Why, sometimes it’s so nice to dream!” But then she added unsmilingly: “Well, not really! Especially when there are other things to think of.” “Wonderful! Since you’ve already been married to a Chinese potentate, you’ll probably be able to understand me too. So listen . . . But wait, I don’t even know your name.” “It’s Nastenka.” “Nastenka. Is that all?” “Is that all! Nothing satisfies you. You seem to be insatiable.” “Ah, no, it satisfies me all right, it thoroughly satisfies me! You’re a very nice girl to become Nastenka for me right away!” “That’s better! But go on, tell me about yourself.” “All right, Nastenka, listen to this ridiculous story then.” I installed myself on the bench next to her, assumed a grave, theatrical pose, and began, as if I were reading the script of a monologue. “There are, my dear Nastenka, in case you don’t know, some rather strange corners in Petersburg. It’s as if the sun that warms the rest of the city never shines on them, and instead another sun, especially designed for them, supplies them with a different light. In those corners, Nastenka, a life goes on quite unlike the one seething around us, a life that is possible in some faraway dreamland but certainly not here in our overserious time. That life is a mixture of something out of pure fantasy, ardently idealistic, with, alas, something bleak and dull and ordinary, not to say outright vulgar.” “Brrr! . . . What an introduction! What am I to hear next?” “You’ll hear, Nastenka—I think I’ll never get tired of calling you Nastenka—that dreamers live in those corners. A dreamer, if you want me to define him, is not a real human being but a sort of intermediary creature. He usually installs himself in some remote corner, shrinking even from the daylight. And once he’s installed in that corner of his, he grows into it like a snail or at least like that curious thing which is at the same time an animal and a house—the tortoise. And why do you think he so loves his four bleak walls that are sooty, reek unspeakably of tobacco smoke, and are always daubed over with green paint? Why do

288 Fyodor Dostoevsky you think this ridiculous creature, when some rare acquaintance comes to see him (ultimately he’s bound to lose all his acquaintances anyway), looks so embarrassed and taken aback, as if he’d just committed a crime between those very walls, as if he’d been forging money or writing verses to be sent to a magazine with an anonymous letter explaining that the author of the piece is dead and that the sender considers it his sacred duty to see the poem published? Why do you think, Nastenka, that conversation between the two of them is so painful? Why can’t the visitor laugh or say something amusing now? In other circumstances he is prone to laugh, say amusing things, and chat about the fair sex and other pleasant matters. Why does that acquaintance, probably a recent one, on his very first visit—for under such circumstances there cannot be more than one visit, as no friend returns for a second time—even assuming that he’s exceptionally perceptive, why does he feel so awkward looking at the agonized face of his host, who, after desperate but futile efforts to comfort the hapless man who has blundered into his house on a friendly visit by making the conversation flow, giving it some sparkle, and showing that he too is fully aware of elegant ways and can talk about the fair sex, has become completely lost by then. And why, in the end, does the visitor suddenly remember that he has some terribly urgent matter to attend to, grab his hat and dart off, managing to free his hand from the warm pressure of his host’s while the host tries by every means possible to show that he’s sorry and is trying to redeem himself? Why does the departing visitor laugh as he closes the door behind him and promise himself never to return to the house of that queer fish, although deep down the queer fish really means well? Why, at the same time, is the visitor unable to refrain from comparing his host’s face during his visit to a kitten perfidiously captured, manhandled, and scared by children— which kitten then, completely bewildered, hides under some chair in the darkness, and can’t help bristling and spitting while he washes his offended little face with his front paws, and even after that, goes around for a long time looking with apprehension and hostility at the world and even at the tidbits from the master’s table saved for him by a compassionate housekeeper?” “Now look here,” Nastenka interrupted me. She had been listening with her eyes and her small mouth wide open. “I have no idea why it all happened nor why you should ask me to answer all those ridiculous questions. I’m sure of one thing only: that all this happened to you exactly as you have told me.” “You’re right,” I said with a straight face.

289WH ITE N I G HTS “Well, why don’t you go on? I’m anxious to find out how it all ends.” “You’d like to find out, Nastenka, why the hero of the story—that is, me—was so perturbed and bewildered by the unexpected visit of a friend? You’d like to know why I became so flustered and turned so red when the door of my room was opened, why I was incapable of receiving my visitor properly, and why I was crushed so ignominiously under the weight of my embarrassment?” “Well, yes, yes, that’s just it! And then—you speak beautifully, but couldn’t you please speak less beautifully? You sound as though you were reading aloud from a book.” “Nastenka,” I said with ponderous gravity, hardly able to control my laughter, “I know I say things too beautifully; I’m terribly sorry, but I don’t know how to say them otherwise. At this moment, Nastenka, I feel like the spirit of King Solomon that has been kept imprisoned for a thousand years in a jar under seven seals—and now all the seals have been removed. Now, Nastenka, that we have come together again after our long separation—for the fact is, I’ve known you a long time. You see, I’ve been looking for someone, and that’s a sure sign that it must have been you I was looking for and that we were destined to meet. Now, thousands of valves have been opened in my head, and I cannot hold back the torrent of words or I’ll burst. So, I must ask you to be a good girl and listen to me without interrupting. Otherwise, I won’t tell you any more!” “No, no, please go on! Keep talking, I won’t say another word.” “So, I’ll go on, Nastenka. There’s a certain hour of the day, my dear, of which I’m particularly fond. It is the hour when practically all business, office hours, and all that sort of thing come to an end and people rush off home to dine, to have a little rest; and on their way, they think up ways to spend the evening ahead, the night, or whatever free time is left to them that day. At that hour, the hero of this story—for I hope you’ll allow me, Nastenka, to go on telling it in the third person, it’s really too embarrassing to say certain things in the first person—at that hour, my hero walks along among the others. But there’s a strange, pleased expression on his pale, somewhat crumpled face. He watches with a certain pleasure as the red sunset slowly fades in the cold Petersburg sky. When I say he watches, I am wrong; he takes it in distractedly, like someone too tired to look or preoccupied with some more absorbing matter, so that he has only a passing awareness of what is going on around him. He’s pleased, for he’s through until tomorrow with business that bores him. He’s like a schoolboy let out of school hurrying to play his favorite games or pull his favorite pranks. Look at him from the side,

290 Fyodor Dostoevsky Nastenka, and you’ll see right away that his happy feeling has already had a beneficial effect on his weak nerves and over-excitable imagination. Now he is plunged deep in thought. . . . Thinking of dinner? Of the approaching evening? What is he looking at like that? Isn’t it at that dignified-looking gentleman who has just bowed so gracefully to the lady driving past in a glittering carriage drawn by fleet-footed steeds? Oh, no, Nastenka, he has no time for such trifles now! Now he’s rich in his inner life. And he has struck it rich suddenly—the last rays of the setting sun restored warmth to his heart and stirred up a whole stream of impressions. Now he hardly notices the street where, before, the tiniest detail would have struck him. The Goddess of Fantasy has already spun a golden web with her divine hand and has started unfolding before his eyes patterns of an imaginary, marvelous life; who knows, perhaps she has picked him up with her divine hand and transported him from the granite sidewalk he is still following to paradise. Just stop him now and ask him which streets he took to get here and where he is now. I’m sure he won’t know, so he’ll blush and invent some lies just for appearances’ sake. That’s why he started so violently, almost let out a cry, and looked around apprehensively when a nice old lady stopped him in the middle of the sidewalk and asked him to help her find her way. Now frowning angrily, he resumes his way, hardly aware of the grins on the faces of the people he passes, some of whom even stop to give him a second look; oblivious of the little girl who jumps quickly out of his path, bursts into loud giggles, and gapes indiscreetly at his absent smile and gesticulating arms. And already the same Goddess of Fantasy has managed to catch in flight the old lady who’d lost her way, the curious passers-by, the giggling little girl, the bargemen on their barges tied up along the Fontanka, and everything around the Fontanka Embankment—assuming that our hero happens to be walking there at the time. The goddess then playfully weaves everyone and everything into her canvas like flies in a spider’s web. Now the queer fish carries these new acquisitions off to his den. He sits down at his table, and after his dinner is long over, he is still sitting there, reviving only when the dreamy and ever-sad Matryona removes the remains of the meal and brings him his pipe. Then he suddenly realizes that he’s already dined, although dinner had completely escaped his attention. The room has grown dark. His heart feels empty and sad. His world of fancy silently and without a crackle collapses around him and evaporates without his being able to remember what he was dreaming about. But some dark feeling presses on his breast, making it heave faster; a new desire tickles and excites his fancy; and, almost with-

291WH ITE N I G HTS out noticing it, he summons an array of new ghosts. The little room is dark. Loneliness and idleness excite the imagination. The gentle flame is lit, and fancies start perking like the water in the coffee pot around which Matryona is fussing in the kitchen. Then fancy becomes like a flame itself, flashing and flaring so that the book picked up at random drops out of the dreamer’s hands before he has reached the third page. Now his imagination is again vibrating, and suddenly another world with a different life unrolls its enchanted horizons before his eyes. A new dream—new happiness! A new dose of refined, voluptuous poison! Ah, what’s real life to him! To his perverted eye, your life, Nastenka, and mine are unbearably humdrum, slow, and sluggish. He feels we’re discontented with our lot and tired of life. And indeed, at first glance, life is bound to appear cold, gloomy, and rather unfriendly. Ah, the poor creatures! the dreamer thinks—and no wonder. Just look at the magical phantoms who so charmingly, subtly, yet somehow casually fall into place in the panoramic, animated picture that shapes itself before him, a picture in which his own exalted person is always in the foreground. Look at all the different adventures he has there—the endless succession of blissful visions! Now perhaps you would like to ask what he’s dreaming about. But why ask? He dreams of everything . . . of being a poet, at first unrecognized, later crowned; of friendship with Hoffmann the poet; of St. Bartholemew Night; of playing a heroic part in the storming of Kazan under Ivan the Terrible; of Diana Vernon, Clara Mowbray, Effie Deans, and other heroines of Sir Walter Scott; of Jan Hus facing the tribunal of prelates; of the rising of the dead in Robert the Devil (Remember the music? It has a smell of the churchyard about it, don’t you think?); of the Battle of Berezina; of a poetry reading at the Countess Vorontsova-Dashkova’s; of Danton; of Cleopatra i suoi amanti; of Pushkin’s Little House in Kolomna; of having a little house of his own and being there on a wintry evening with his beloved listening to him with her eyes and mouth wide open, just as you’re listening to me now, my dearest angel. . . . “No, Nastenka, what can this voluptuous idler find in the life so dear to people like you and me? He thinks it a poor life, without realizing that for him too there may come a sad hour when, for a single day of that miserable life, he would give away all his years of fancy. And he would exchange his dreams neither for happiness, nor joy; at that grim hour of regret and unrelieved gloom he won’t even care to choose. But until that perilous time comes, the dreamer can have no desires, for he has everything; he is above desire; he is surfeited; he is himself the

292 Fyodor Dostoevsky artist creating his life at every hour, guided only by his own inspiration. “And how effortlessly, how naturally the dreamer’s world of fantasy springs up! It looks so real and not at all like a mirage! In fact, sometimes he almost believes that his dream life is no figment of the imagination, no self-deception, no delusion, but something real, actual, existing. “Now tell me, Nastenka, why does he so often feel out of breath at those moments? Tell me, by what magic, by what uncanny chance, does his pulse quicken, do tears gush from his eyes and his pale cheeks flush, as his whole being fills with inexpressible delight? Why do sleepless nights flash by in a second, in inexhaustible gaiety and happiness? Then, when the rosy rays of dawn appear in the window and the uncertain light of our Petersburg morning fills the gloomy room, our exhausted dreamer throws himself on his bed and falls asleep with an aching feeling of rapture. “Yes, Nastenka, he deceives himself and winds up by believing that he is moved by true, live passion, that there is substance—flesh and blood— to his fancies! And it is quite a deception! Just look at him and see for yourself. Can you believe, looking at him, Nastenka, that he doesn’t even know the woman he loved so passionately in his sultry flights of fancy? Can you believe that he has only seen her in irresistibly voluptuous mirages and that he simply dreamed that passion? Is it really possible that they have never walked hand in hand during so many years, spurning the rest of the universe, merging their own two worlds and lives? Is it possible that at the late hour when they had to part, she didn’t really lay her head, sobbing and miserable, on his chest, not hearing the wind that snatched tears from her black eyelashes? Would you believe it was all nothing but a dream—the wild, neglected garden with its path overgrown with moss, so lonely and desolate, along which they used to walk together so often, hoping, suffering, loving so tenderly and for so long? And that there was no strange, ancestral home where she had lived for so many dull, lonely years with her stern old husband, always silent and irritable, who frightened them, timid children that they were, children sadly and shyly hiding their love from each other? Ah, how afraid they were, how they languished, how pure and innocent was their love, and how wicked—it goes without saying, Nastenka—were the people around them! And did he never meet her later, far away from their native shore, under an alien, southern sky, in a divine, eternal city, at a glamorous ball, to the thunder of music, the whole affair taking place in a palazzo (it must be a palazzo) drowned in a sea of lights? . . . They are on a terrace wreathed in myrtle and roses . . . she recognizes him, tears off her

293WH ITE N I G HTS mask and, whispering, “I am free now!” flings herself into his arms, trembling with rapture. . . . They hold each other tight, and in a moment they’ve forgotten their unhappiness, their separation, all their sufferings, the forbidding house, the old man, the bleak garden in their remote homeland, the bench where he kissed her for the last time, holding her in his desperate embrace from which she had to tear herself, leaving him with his suffering. . . . “Ah, Nastenka, you must agree that anyone would feel awkward and embarrassed and would turn red like a boy who has just stuffed into his pocket an apple he’s stolen from the next-door garden if some long- legged, healthy joker, an uninvited friend of his, opened his door and announced, as if nothing had happened: ‘Hi, chum! What do you know, I’ve just arrived from Pavlovsk!’ “It’s unbearable. In dreamland the old count is dead and an inconceivable happiness is mine, and then this fellow arrives from Pavlovsk!” My dramatic exclamations over, I fell dramatically silent. I remember that I wanted to force myself to laugh, for I felt that some hostile imp had installed himself inside me and was squeezing my throat, making my chin tremble and my eyes grow damp. I expected Nastenka, who had been listening with her intelligent, wide-open eyes fixed on me, to burst out in uncontrollable, childish laughter at any second, and I was already regretting having gone too far and told her things which had been weighing on my heart for a long time, things about which I could talk as smoothly as a book because I had long ago pronounced judgment on myself and couldn’t help reading it out now and confessing without expecting to be understood. But to my great surprise, she remained silent for a while, then, pressing my hand slightly, asked me with a sort of timid understanding: “Is that really how you’ve lived all this time?” “All the time, Nastenka, and it looks as if I’ll go on like that to the end.” “No,” she said, looking worried, “that won’t happen. That would be like me spending my whole life at my grandmother’s side. Listen, I tell you it’s not right to live like that.” “Ah, don’t I know it, Nastenka!” I exclaimed, unable to control my emotions any longer. “At this moment I see more clearly than ever before that I’ve wasted my best years. And the realization hurts me even more because it was God who sent you to me, my lovely angel, to make me see it. As I sit here next to you, it is already painful to think of the future, because there’s nothing in it but a lonely, stale, useless existence. What

294 Fyodor Dostoevsky could I dream of, now that I’ve been so happy with you in real life? Oh, bless you, my dearest girl, for not spurning me at first sight, for enabling me to say that I’ve lived at least two evenings in the course of my existence!” “Ah, no, no!” Nastenka said with emotion, tears sparkling in her eyes. “No, no more of that life! We shan’t part like this! What’s two evenings?” “Ah, Nastenka, Nastenka! Do you realize that you have reconciled me with myself for a long time to come? Do you realize that now I’ll never think quite as badly of myself as I sometimes have in the past? Do you know that perhaps I won’t be unhappy any more over having committed a crime or a sin in my life, because now I realize that my whole life was nothing but a crime and a sin in itself? And don’t imagine, please, that I’m exaggerating, Nastenka, for there are moments when I’m overcome by such anguish and despair that . . . In those moments, I feel that I’ll never have a true life because I feel sure I’ve entirely lost touch with reality; because I feel damned; because, in the middle of my fancy-filled nights, I have moments of lucidity that are unbearable! In the meantime, I hear the din of the human crowd around me and see how people who are awake live, and I realize that their lives are not made to measure, that they don’t shatter like dreams, like visions, that their lives are perpetually renewed, every hour in them different from the one before, whereas the timid daydream is horribly monotonous, a slave to the shadows, to ideas, to the first cloud that suddenly hides the sun and squeezes in anguish the heart of a true inhabitant of Petersburg who must have his sunshine—for what fancy is there that can do without sunshine? In the end, you feel that your much-vaunted, inexhaustible fantasy is growing tired, debilitated, exhausted, because you’re bound to grow out of your old ideals; they’re smashed to splinters and turn to dust, and if you have no other life, you have no choice but to keep rebuilding your dreams from the splinters and dust. But the heart longs for something different! And it is vain to dig in the ashes of your old fancies, trying to find even a tiny spark to fan into a new flame that will warm the chilled heart and bring back to life everything that can send the blood rushing wildly through the body, fill the eyes with tears— everything that can delude you so well! “And shall I tell you, Nastenka, how far I’ve gone? Would you believe that I have taken to celebrating the anniversaries of my sensations, the anniversary of something that was delightful at one time, of something that actually never occurred. I am reduced to celebrating anniversaries because I no longer have anything with which to replace even those

295WH ITE N I G HTS silly, flimsy dreams. For dreams, Nastenka, have to be renewed too. I like revisiting, at certain times, spots where I was once happy; I like to shape the present in the image of the irretrievable past. So I often roam like a sad, gloomy shadow, without need or aim, along Petersburg’s streets and alleys. And what memories come to me! I may remember, for instance, that exactly one year ago, at this very hour, in this very street, I was walking along this very sidewalk, just as gloomy and lonely as now. And I may remember that although my dreams were sad and life was painful, somehow it was not as agonizing as it has become now; the black forebodings that have since taken hold of me weren’t there yet; nor was there the gnawing, dreary feeling of guilt that now torments me day and night, never leaving me a moment’s peace. And so I ask myself: ‘Where are your dreams?’ And I shake my head and mutter: ‘How the years go by!’ And I ask myself again: ‘What have you done with those years? Where have you buried your best moments? Have you really lived? Look,’ I say to myself, ‘how cold it is becoming all over the world!’ And more years will pass and behind them will creep grim isolation. Tottering senility will come hobbling, leaning on a crutch, and behind these will come unrelieved boredom and despair. The world of fancies will fade, dreams will wilt and die and fall like autumn leaves from the trees. . . . Ah, Nastenka, won’t it be sad to be left alone, all, all alone, without even having anything to regret—nothing, but nothing; for everything I’ve lost is nothing but a stupid, round zero, nothing but a flimsy fancy?” “Stop it, stop it. . . .” Nastenka brushed away a little tear. “It’s all over now. Now there’ll be the two of us. Now, whatever happens, we’ll never part again. Listen, I’m only an ordinary girl. I’ve studied very little, although my grandmother did hire a teacher for me. But, believe me, I understand everything you’ve said because I felt the same way when Grandma pinned me to her dress. Of course, I can’t express it as well as you because of my lack of education,” she remarked shyly, apparently feeling that she ought to pay tribute to my pathetic monologue and high- flown style. “But I’m very glad that you’ve told me everything so frankly. Now I know you completely. And now I want to tell you my story, without holding anything back, then perhaps you’ll give me your advice. You are so intelligent—I want you to promise to give me advice.” “Ah, Nastenka, I’ve never been much of an advisor, especially an intelligent advisor, but since we’re going to be together, I feel that my advice will be terribly clever and that each of us will have many, many intelligent suggestions to offer the other. Well, then, pretty Nastenka, let’s see what advice I can give you. Come, tell me everything—I’m so

296 Fyodor Dostoevsky happy, cheerful, daring, and clever that I’m sure I won’t have to search for words.” “No!” Nastenka laughed. “It isn’t clever advice I’m after, it’s brotherly understanding from someone who, as it were, has loved me all my life.” “That suits me, Nastenka, suits me fine! As to loving, had I loved you for twenty years, I’m sure I couldn’t possibly love you more than I do now.” “Give me your hand,” Nastenka said. I gave it to her. “Here goes,” she said. “You already know half my story. You know I have an old grandmother—” “If the other half is as short as the one I know . . .” I interjected, laughing. “No, just keep quiet and listen. Don’t interrupt me; it puts me off. Just listen. “I have an old grandmother. I’ve lived with her ever since I was a very little girl, because my parents are dead. Grandma apparently was much better off before, for she keeps remembering better days. It was she who taught me French and later hired a teacher for me. I stopped taking lessons when I was fifteen—I’m seventeen now. When I was fifteen, I did something naughty. I won’t go into what I did exactly, except to say that it wasn’t much. Still, Grandma called me over to her that morning and said that since she was blind she couldn’t very well watch me. Then she took a safety pin and pinned my dress to hers, saying that we were going to stay sitting like that forever, unless, of course, my behavior improved. Well, to make it short, at first it was impossible for me to move away from her; I had to work, study, read—everything—sitting by my grandmother’s side. Once I tried to trick her by persuading our maid Fyokla to sit in for me. Grandma had fallen asleep in her armchair. Fyokla is deaf, you see, and she took my place while I ran out to the house of a girl, a friend of mine who lived nearby. But it ended badly. Grandma woke up and asked something, assuming that it was me. Fyokla saw Grandma was trying to say something but, of course, she couldn’t hear what it was. So, not knowing what else to do, she unfastened the pin and ran away.” This memory made Nastenka laugh so much that she had to interrupt herself. I laughed too, but as soon as she realized I was laughing, she stopped short and said: “Now look here, you mustn’t laugh at Grandma! I laugh because I

297WH ITE N I G HTS can’t help it—she really is so funny. But then, you see, I’m fond of her at the same time. Anyway, I was in real trouble. She pinned me to her again, and I wasn’t even allowed to move. “Ah, I forgot to tell you that my grandma owns the house we live in. It’s just a tiny wooden house with three windows, and almost as old as she is. It also has an attic room, and a new lodger came to live in the attic—” “Therefore, I assume that there was a lodger before him,” I remarked. “Of course there was—and he could keep quiet much better than you can,” Nastenka said. “True, he had difficulty moving his tongue at all, for he was a very, very old man, quite mute, blind, and lame; in the end, living became too much for him and he just died. So a new lodger took his place, for we can’t afford not to have a lodger. That and Grandma’s pension make up our entire income. Now, the new lodger happened to be a young man. He came from out of town. When Grandma told him what the rent was, he didn’t bargain, so she took him and then asked me: “ ‘Tell me, Nastenka, the new lodger is a young man, isn’t he?’ “I couldn’t lie to her, so I said that although he wasn’t old, he wasn’t so young either. “ ‘Is he good-looking?’ she asked me then. “Again I didn’t want to lie. “ ‘Yes, Grandma, he’s quite good-looking.’ “ ‘Ah, that’s really too bad!’ Grandma said, ‘because I’m asking you all these questions so you won’t keep staring at him. Ah, what times we live in,’ she added. ‘Think of it—just an insignificant lodger and he turns out to be handsome, too. Ah, what’re we all coming to? You never saw such things happening in the good old days.’ “According to Grandma, everything was just wonderful in the good old days—she was younger in those days, and the sun shone brighter and was warmer, and milk didn’t go bad as it does now! And while she goes on and on like that, I sit in silence and think to myself: ‘It looks as if Grandma were trying to give me ideas, asking whether the lodger is handsome or not.’ And then I got absorbed in counting the stitches in my knitting, and the lodger completely vanished from my mind. “Then one morning the lodger came to inquire when they were going to paper his room as he’d been promised. And, Grandma being a great hand at chatting, they got into a conversation in no time, then she says to me: ‘Nastenka, run and bring me the abacus from my bedroom.’ I don’t know why, but that made me turn red. I forgot all about the safety pin and jumped up to scamper into the other room. The movement yanked

298 Fyodor Dostoevsky the pin and Grandma’s armchair came rolling along on its casters. I don’t know how I could have forgotten about that safety pin and neglected to unfasten it discreetly! And now, realizing that the lodger had found out about it, I stopped dead where I was and burst into tears. I felt so hopelessly ashamed and humiliated at that moment that I thought I’d never be able to face the world again. “ ‘What are you waiting for?’ Grandma kept shouting at me, but that only made me cry worse. And the lodger, seeing how embarrassed I was, muttered some excuse and rushed off. “After that day, I felt like dying whenever I heard the slightest noise in the passage. The lodger’s coming, I said to myself each time, and I’d quietly unfasten the pin. But it was never him. “A couple of weeks passed, and the lodger sent us a note by Fyokla saying he had a lot of books, some French ones among them, and perhaps Grandmother would like him to send us some so that I might read to her to pass the time? Grandmother accepted gratefully after first inquiring whether they were decent, proper books. ‘Because if they aren’t,’ she told me, ‘I won’t allow you to read them, for I don’t want you to learn any wicked things from them, Nastenka.’ “ ‘But what sort of wicked things,’ I asked her, ‘could I learn from them, Grandma?’ “ ‘Well,’ she said, ‘they may describe young men seducing well- brought-up young girls, abducting them from their parents’ homes under the pretext of wishing to marry them, then abandoning them to their fate and perdition. I have read many books like that,’ Grandma told me, ‘and they describe that sort of thing so well and so vividly that sometimes I used to read them on the sly throughout the night and into the morning. So mind, Nastenka,’ she added, ‘you stay away from books like that. Now what are the books he’s sent us called?’ “ ‘They’re all novels, Grandma, novels by Sir Walter Scott.’ “ ‘Walter Scott, you say? You’d better make sure there’s no trick. See that he hasn’t tried to slip some note in along with them, some love letter.’ “ ‘No, Grandma, there’s no note . . . nothing.’ “ ‘Yes, but we’d better watch out!’ “So we started reading Walter Scott, and within a month or so, we were through almost half of it. Later he sent us some more books, including Pushkin; finally, I couldn’t imagine how I could live without books, and I stopped dreaming about marrying that Chinese prince. . . . “That was the situation when one day I bumped into our lodger on the

299WH ITE N I G HTS stairs as I was going on some errand for Grandma. He stepped back, and I saw he’d turned red. But he laughed, said hello, inquired after Grandmother’s health, and asked me: “ ‘Have you read the books?’ “ ‘I have.’ “ ‘And which did you like best?’ “ ‘Ivanhoe,’ I said, ‘and, of course, Pushkin.’ “And that was all that happened that time. “A week later we again met on the stairs. This time Grandma hadn’t sent me. I was going somewhere on an errand of my own. It was around two in the afternoon, and that happened to be the time at which the lodger usually came home. “ ‘Hello,’ he said. “ ‘Hello,’ I answered. “ ‘Tell me,’ he said, ‘don’t you get bored sitting all day with your grandmother like that?’ “Now when he asked that, I don’t know why, but I became very embarrassed, and flushed. I felt humiliated because apparently even strangers were beginning to inquire about what was going on. I decided not to answer, just to turn away and leave, but I didn’t have the strength. “ ‘Please,’ he said, ‘forgive me for speaking to you like that. I have great respect for you, and believe me, your well-being means more to me even than it does to your grandmother. Don’t you know any girls whom you could visit?’ “I explained to him that I had only one friend, called Mashenka, and that she’d moved to Pskov with her family, and I had no one left. “ ‘Tell me,’ he asked then, ‘what would you say if I asked you to come to the theater with me?’ “ ‘The theater? But what about my grandmother?’ “ ‘Couldn’t you manage it without her finding out?’ “ ‘No,’ I said, ‘I don’t want to deceive my grandmother. Good-by.’ “ ‘Good-by then.’ “And that was all he said. “But, after dinner, he came down to our rooms, sat down, and had a long talk with Grandma. He asked her whether she ever went out and whether she had any friends, then suddenly slipped in, as if in passing: “ ‘I have tickets, a loge in fact, for tonight’s performance of The Barber of Seville. Some friends of mine got them, but couldn’t make it tonight, so I have the tickets—’

300 Fyodor Dostoevsky “ ‘The Barber of Seville!’ Grandmother exclaimed. Why, it must be the same Barber they used to put on in the good old days!’ “ ‘Yes, ma’am,’ the lodger said, ‘the very same!’ “And as he said that he gave a look that made me go crimson and set my heart skipping in expectation. “ ‘That’s one opera that I really know,’ Grandmother said. ‘In fact, in my younger days, I myself sang Rosina in an amateur dramatic group.’ “ ‘Wouldn’t you like to come with me tonight? I think it’d be a shame to waste the tickets.’ “ ‘Well, I don’t see why we shouldn’t go,’ Grandma decided, ‘especially as my Nastenka here has never been to the theater.’ “Ah, what a joy it was! We immediately started preparing, got dressed, and drove over to the Opera. Grandma, although she couldn’t see a thing, still wanted to listen to the music. And, deep down, she was a kind old thing and very pleased that I should have such fun—we would never have gone anywhere without this opportunity. “I won’t describe my impressions of The Barber of Seville, but I’ll tell you that all that evening the lodger kept looking at me so nicely and talking to me so eloquently that I realized that, by asking me earlier whether I’d come to the theater with him in secret, he’d only wanted to test me. Ah, it was such joy! So I went to bed incredibly proud and happy, and my heart beat so hard that I worked up a slight fever and raved about The Barber of Seville the rest of the night. “I imagined, after that, that he’d come to see us often. But, on the contrary, he hardly ever came. He might come in once or twice a month, and only to invite us to the theater. In fact, we went twice more with him, I believe. But I was no longer happy on those occasions. I thought he was just sorry for me, leading that sad life with my grandmother, and that there was nothing else to it on his part. And, as time went by, strange moods started coming over me. I was unable to stay quiet, unable to take in what I was reading, unable to concentrate on my work; sometimes I burst out laughing just to irritate grandmother, and sometimes I suddenly dissolved into tears. I grew very thin and was almost seriously ill. The opera season was over, and the lodger stopped coming at all. And when he did meet me—always on the stairs, of course— he bowed so unsmilingly that I felt sure he didn’t even wish to talk to me; and after he had already left the house, I would still be standing in the middle of the stairs, red as a cherry, for when I saw him, the blood never failed to rush to my head. “Now, let me tell the end of my story. Just a year ago, in May, the

301WH ITE N I G HTS lodger came to tell my grandmother that his business in Petersburg was over and that he must now move to Moscow. When I heard that, I turned as pale as the tablecloth and went all limp in my chair. Grandma never noticed anything; the lodger just said good night and left. “What was I to do? I racked my brains in despair, and finally, I decided. The day before he was to leave I decided to take a desperate step in the evening, after Grandma had gone to bed. And I did. I picked out some dresses and the necessary underwear, made a bundle out of them and, carrying it, went, half-alive, half-dead, upstairs to the lodger’s room. Walking up that flight of stairs seemed to take a whole hour. “When I opened his door, he turned his head and, seeing me, let out a cry. He must have taken me for a ghost, for I had turned white, and my legs were hardly able to carry me. He hurried to get me some water. My heart was beating so hard it hurt, and my head ached, and everything inside it went all blurry. “When I came to, the first thing I did was put my bundle on his bed, sit down next to it myself, and let my tears pour in two rivers. I believe he understood everything right away. He stood there looking at me, and his expression was so wretched that my heart was torn by a terrible anguish. “ ‘Nastenka,’ he said at last, ‘I want you to understand. I can do nothing. I’m poor; I haven’t a thing to my name. I don’t even have a decent job. So what would we live on if I married you?’ “We discussed it for a long time, in the end, I lost all control over myself and declared that I could no longer live with my grandmother, that I’d run away, that I’d had enough of being fastened to her with a safety pin, and that, whatever he might say, I was going to Moscow with him because I couldn’t live without him. Shame, love, pride—everything— was seething within me at the same time, and fearing that he might refuse me, I collapsed on the bed almost in convulsions. “He sat in complete silence for a few moments, then he got up and took my hand. “ ‘Listen, my nice little Nastenka,’ he said, and I saw that there were tears in his eyes, too. ‘I swear to you that I’m certain I’d be happy with you if I were ever in a position to marry you. Listen: I have to go to Moscow, and I’ll be staying there for exactly a year. I must go there to take care of my business. When I come back, if you still love me, I swear we’ll be happy. But now I have no right to promise you anything. I’ll say too, however, that if I can’t make it in one year, I’ll still come and find

302 Fyodor Dostoevsky you later—that is, if you don’t prefer someone else by then, because I cannot, I have no right to bind you to me by promises.’ “The next day he was gone. We’d agreed not to say a word to Grandma. He’d insisted upon that. Well, that’s about all there is to my story. The year has gone by, and he’s come back. Indeed, he’s been here for three days already, and—and—” “And what?” I cried, unable to stand it any longer. “He hasn’t come to see me,” Nastenka said, and I felt that she was making a great effort, “he hasn’t given a sign of life—” She cut herself short, remained silent for a few seconds, then covering her face with her hands, burst into sobs that tore at my heart. I hadn’t expected such an ending. “Nastenka,” I ventured imploringly, “please, please don’t cry. Maybe he simply hasn’t come yet. . . .” “No, no, he’s here, he’s here!” Nastenka cried. “I know it! We agreed that evening before he left. . . . After we’d said all the things I’ve already told you, we came out to take a walk on this embankment. It was ten o’clock. We sat down on the bench; I’d stopped crying. I loved the things he was saying to me. . . . He told me that as soon as he was back in town, if I still wanted him, we’d tell everything to Grandma. And now he’s back in town—I know it for sure—but he still hasn’t come to see me. . . .” And she burst into tears again. “But, my God, is there really nothing I can do for you?” I leaped up from the bench in complete despair. “Tell me, Nastenka, couldn’t I go and see him or something?” “Do you think that’s possible?” she said, suddenly raising her head. “No, of course not,” I said, coming back to my senses. “You know what you should do? Write him a letter.” “No, I can’t; that’s impossible too,” she said firmly, but this time she lowered her eyes. “Why is it impossible? Why?” I insisted. “Do you know what letter you ought to write, Nastenka? There are letters and letters, you know. So please trust my judgment; I won’t give you bad advice. Everything will turn out fine, I’m sure. You took the initiative in the first place, so why not now?” “Impossible, impossible, it would look as if I were throwing myself at him—” “But no, you’re wrong, dear little Nastenka!” I interrupted her without trying to hide my smile. “You have the right to demand. He promised, after all, didn’t he? And, from what I understand, he’s an honest, con-

303WH ITE N I G HTS siderate man, and I’m sure there’s nothing dishonorable in his behavior.” I continued, admiring the logic of my own reasoning and arguments more and more: “What did he do? He tied himself down by a promise. He declared that if he married anyone it would be you, while leaving you completely free to refuse him if your feelings changed. So it is quite natural that you make the first move. It’s your right, your advantage over him, and you should do it even if, for instance, you decide to release him from his word.” “Tell me, how would you write to him?” “What?” “The letter, of course.” “Well, I’d start like this: ‘Dear Sir—’ ” “Must I really address him ‘dear sir’?” “Yes, it’s indispensable. But after all, I think—” “Well, go on!” “I’d write like this: “ ‘Dear Sir, Forgive me—’ No, no apologies are necessary. The letter justifies itself. Write simply: “ ‘I thought I would write to you first. Please forgive my impatience, but for a whole year I have lived on hope. Am I to blame, then, if I cannot stand even one day of doubt? Now that you are back in town, and may have had a change of heart, let me assure you by this letter that I have nothing to reproach you for, for I cannot command your love. So I will consider it simply as my fate. “ ‘You are a decent and honorable man, and I am sure you will not laugh or be angry reading these impatient lines. You will keep in mind that they are written by a poor, lonely girl who has no one to advise her and who never could control her own heart. But forgive me for entertaining even a fleeting suspicion that you could hurt, even in thought, the girl who has loved you so much and who still loves you.’ ” “Yes, yes, that’s exactly what I had in mind!” Nastenka was very enthusiastic and her eyes sparkled with joy. “Ah, you have resolved my doubts! I think God Himself sent you to me! Thank you, thank you, thank you!” “Thank me for what? For being sent by God?” It was a delight to look at her pretty face, so happy now. “Yes, thank you for being sent to me to begin with.” “Ah, Nastenka, since we feel grateful sometimes to people just for living with us, let me thank you for having met you, for making it possible for me to remember you as long as I live.”

304 Fyodor Dostoevsky “Well, that will do for now. Listen, we agreed that when he came back, he’d let me know by leaving a letter for me with some friends of mine, nice, simple people who know nothing about this. Or, if he couldn’t leave the letter, he’d come here to this bench, at ten in the evening, on the very day he returned to Petersburg. Now I know he’s in town, but he hasn’t kept our date or written the letter. I cannot possibly leave my grandmother in the morning, so couldn’t you, please, take my letter to those friends I mentioned? They’ll see that he gets it. And if there’s an answer, bring it to me here tomorrow evening at ten.” “But what about the letter? You have to write it first; at best, you might get a reply the day after tomorrow.” “The letter . . .” Nastenka said, somewhat at a loss, “the letter . . . but . . .” She didn’t finish. She suddenly turned her face away from me, growing red as a red rose, and I felt her slipping a letter into my hand that, it turned out, had already been written and sealed. Something light, graceful, and familiar flashed through my mind. “R-r-o-si-i-na . . .” I intoned. “Rosina!” we sang together, and I was so moved and delighted that I felt terribly like putting my arms around her. She was blushing deeply and laughing, and tiny glistening tears hung on her black eyelashes. “Enough, enough. Good-by now, good night!” she rattled. “You have the letter and the address. Good night, see you tomorrow!” She pressed both my hands hard, nodded, and darted off. I remained standing there for a long time, following her with my eyes. “See you tomorrow . . . tomorrow . . .” flashed in my head as she disappeared around a corner. THE THIRD NIGHT It had been a sad, drizzly day, without relief—just like my future senility. I am oppressed by strange thoughts and dark sensations; throngs of vague questions obsess me, but I have neither the strength nor the desire to cope with them. No, I cannot cope with it all! We won’t meet tonight. Last night, as we parted, clouds overcast the sky and a mist was rising. “Tomorrow will be a miserable day,” I said. She didn’t answer. She didn’t want to shed doubt on a day that shone before her bright and sunny. She didn’t want to cast a single cloud over it.

305WH ITE N I G HTS “If it rains tomorrow,” she said, “I won’t come.” I didn’t think she’d notice that it was raining, but she must have, for she didn’t come. Last night was our third meeting, our third white night. . . . Yes, joy and happiness do make a person beautiful. His heart overflows with love, and he seems to try to pour that love into the heart of a fellow creature. He wants everything to laugh and to sparkle. And his joy is so contagious! There was so much tenderness, so much friendliness, for me in her heart last night. She was so full of solicitude for me and tried so hard to make me feel happy. Ah, a happy woman is always so full of seductive charm, but I . . . I took it at its face value; I imagined that . . . But how could I imagine anything of the sort. How could I be so blind, since I knew that all that had already been taken by someone else, that none of it could be for me; that even her niceness, her solicitude, her love—yes, her love for me—was nothing but happiness caused by a forthcoming meeting with another man, a wish on her part to impart a bit of that happiness to me. And when he didn’t turn up, when we’d waited in vain, she frowned, lost her composure, looked afraid. Her movements and her words were no longer light or playful or gay. And, strangely, she doubled the attentions she showered on me, as if she wanted instinctively to give me something she was longing for herself, something she feared she wouldn’t get. Nastenka had become so timid and fearful that I believe she grasped finally that I was in love with her and took pity on my poor love, for our own unhappiness makes us more sensitive to the unhappiness of others. When someone is unhappy, his sensitivity is not scattered; it becomes tense and concentrated. I had come to meet her tense with emotion, hardly able to wait for the moment of meeting. I never expected to feel what I felt, nor that it would end the way it did. She was beaming. She expected an answer from him. The answer was to be himself; he would come running in answer to her call. She’d come a whole hour before me. At first, every word made her burst into happy laughter. “Do you know why I’m so happy tonight?” she said. “Why I’m so pleased to see you? Why I like you so much?” “Yes?” I said, beginning to shiver. “I like you so much because you haven’t fallen in love with me. Someone else in your position might have started pestering me, become full of self-pity, moaned—but not you, you’re so nice!”

306 Fyodor Dostoevsky She suddenly pressed my hand so hard that I started and almost cried out. She laughed. “Ah, you’re such a wonderful friend,” she said a moment later, seriously this time. “Yes, God sent you to me, really, I mean it. I can’t imagine what would have become of me without you. You’re so selfless, you’ve been so nice to me! When I’m married, we’ll see a lot of each other, we’ll be closer than brother and sister. I’ll love you almost as much as I love him. . . .” Somehow I felt awfully sad, yet something resembling laughter stirred somewhere deep down inside me. “You’re overwrought,” I said. “You’re afraid he won’t come.” “Whatever are you talking about? If I weren’t so happy, your remarks and your lack of trust in me would make me cry. But it makes me think, after all . . . But I’ll think later; in the meantime, I admit you’re right. Yes, I’m not myself now, I’m all expectation, I feel a little too light. . . . But let’s leave this conversation about feelings—” At that second we heard steps and we saw a figure moving through the darkness. It was coming toward us. We both began to tremble. She just managed to suppress a cry. I let go of her hand and moved away discreetly. But it wasn’t him. “What are you afraid of? Why did you let go my hand?” She thrust her hand back into mine. “Well, what do you say, shall we meet him together? I want him to see how much we love each other.” “How much we love each other?” I repeated. “Ah, Nastenka,” I thought, “those words mean so many things! That sort of love sometimes freezes a heart and makes life seem unbearable. Your hand is cold—mine is burning. You’re blind. There certainly are times when happy people are unbearable—but I could never be angry with you!” But finally I couldn’t stand it. “Listen, Nastenka,” I said tensely, “to how I got through this day.” “What? Tell me! Why haven’t you said anything about it till now?” “First I went to carry out all your errands. I went to see your friends, left your letter there, then . . . then I went back home and turned in.” “And that’s all?” she laughed. “Almost all . . .” I made a great effort to control the idiotic tears that otherwise would have spurted from my eyes. “Then I woke up. About an hour before I was to meet you. But I felt

307WH ITE N I G HTS I hadn’t slept at all. I didn’t know what was happening to me. It was as if time had stopped and one sensation, one feeling would remain in me from then on; as if one minute was going to stretch out into eternity; as if life would stop and stand still for me. I was going to tell you all this as soon as we met. When I woke up, I was under the impression that some sweet melody, heard somewhere long ago and since forgotten, had come back to me now, that for all these years, I’d been searching for it, longing for it, but only now—” “My God, what’s this all about?” Nastenka interrupted me. “I don’t understand a thing you’re saying.” “I was trying, Nastenka, to make you understand the strange feeling—” I started in a pitiful voice in which there was still a note of hope, even if a very faint one. “Stop it! That’s enough, stop it,” she repeated quickly. It hadn’t taken her long to guess, the sly girl! She suddenly became very talkative, gay, and full of jokes. Laughing, she took my arm, trying to make me laugh, too. Every awkward, embarrassed word of mine set off such long peals of silvery laughter that I was on the point of losing my temper. Then she became flirtatious. “You see,” she began, “I’m a bit offended with you for not falling in love with me. People don’t always make sense, remember! But still, Mr. Unmovable, you can’t avoid complimenting me for being so straightforward. Why, I tell you everything, however inane, that crosses my mind.” “Wait, I believe that’s eleven striking,” I said. The even booming had started in a distant clock tower. She stopped laughing and counted. “Yes, eleven,” she said in a weak, hesitant voice. I was sorry that I had alarmed her and had made her count the strokes. I cursed myself for my spitefulness. I felt miserable for her, and didn’t know how to make up for my nastiness. I tried to cheer her up, to find good reasons for his failure to turn up, to argue, prove, plead. She was, of course, very easy to convince on that subject, only too delighted to clutch at any excuse for him that I could think up. “It’s really funny,” I was saying heatedly, admiring the persuasive power of my own arguments, “your assurance that he’d be here led me to accept it as a fact and even lose my sense of time. Actually, he couldn’t possibly have made it. Just think, he’s hardly had time to receive the letter. Now suppose he couldn’t come tonight and wrote a note to that effect. It couldn’t get to your friends’ before tomorrow, could it? I’ll go and see first thing tomorrow morning and let you know right away. Now

308 Fyodor Dostoevsky there are hundreds of other possibilities; for instance, he may not have been at home when the letter arrived, and maybe he hasn’t read it to this very moment. . . . Anything could’ve happened.” “Yes, of course,” Nastenka said, “that hadn’t even occurred to me. Of course—anything could have happened.” Her tone was extremely co-operative, but I detected a jarring, discordant note in it, an echo of thoughts of a different kind. “Here’s what we’ll do,” she said. “You’ll go there tomorrow as early as you can, and if there’s something, you’ll let me know immediately. You know where I live, of course.” And she repeated her address. Then she became breathtakingly tender and at the same time shy. . . . I thought she was attentively following what I was saying, but when I asked her some question, she said nothing, became embarrassed, and turned her head away from me. I looked into her eyes. That was it—she was crying. “You mustn’t, you mustn’t! Ah, you’re behaving like a child. You’re just a baby!” She tried to smile to control herself, but her chin was trembling and her bosom heaving. “I’ve been thinking of you,” she said after a moment’s silence. “You’ve been so kind that I’d have to be made of stone not to be touched. And, you know, I compared the two of you and decided that you are the better of the two, although I love him more.” I didn’t answer. She seemed to expect me to say something. “Of course, I may still not understand him or know him perfectly,” she said. “Come to think of it, I’ve always been afraid of him. He’s always been so grave, so proud in a way. Of course, I know that it’s only the way he looks, that there’s more tenderness in his heart than in my own. . . . I remember how he looked at me when—remember?—I came to his room with that bundle. Still, I look up to him with respect, which may mean we aren’t equals, don’t you think?” “No, Nastenka, no, it simply means that you love him more than anything in the world, and much more than yourself.” “All right, let’s assume you’re right,” naïve Nastenka replied. “But shall I tell you what has just occurred to me? All right. Only I won’t talk about myself now but speak in general, for this thought has recurred to me several times. Tell me, why aren’t we all like brothers? Why does even the best person hold back something from another? Why not say directly what we feel if we know that what we entrust won’t be scattered to the winds?

309WH ITE N I G HTS As it is, everyone looks much tougher than he really is, as if he felt it’d be an insult to his feelings if he expressed them too readily—” “Ah, that’s it exactly, Nastenka,” I interrupted her, doing more violence than ever to my own feelings, “and it’s due to many causes—” “No, no!” she said heatedly. “Take you, for instance—you’re not like the rest. I don’t quite know how to explain it . . . but I feel . . . yes, even now, you are sacrificing something for my sake.” She shyly cast a sidelong glance at me. “Forgive me for speaking to you like this, but I’m a simple girl who hasn’t seen much in this world yet, and there are times when I can’t talk.” Her voice trembled with some hidden emotion and, at the same time, she tried to smile. “All I wanted to tell you was that I’m grateful, that I too—I feel all that—Ah, may God reward you with happiness! But what you told me before about that dreamer of yours, that’s untrue. I mean, it has absolutely nothing to do with you. You’re recovering now; you’re really a completely different person from the one you tried to pass yourself off as. If you ever fall in love, may you be happy with her! And I don’t have to wish her anything, for I know shell be happy with you. I know it, for I’m a woman myself, and you must believe me. . . .” She fell silent and squeezed my hand. I couldn’t utter a word. Several minutes went by. “We’ll, it doesn’t look as though he’s coming tonight,” she said at last, lifting her head. “It’s getting quite late.” “He’ll be here tomorrow,” I said in a firm, convincing voice. “Yes,” she said, growing suddenly cheerful, “I can see now that he’ll come tomorrow. So good night, see you tomorrow. If it rains, I may not come. But the night after that I’ll be here, without fail, whatever happens. You must be here too; I want to see you and tell you everything.” When we were saying good-by, she gave me her hand, looked at me brightly, and said: “Well always be together now, won’t we?” Oh, Nastenka, Nastenka! if you had any idea how lonely I feel! When it struck nine I couldn’t stand it in my room. I dressed and went out. I walked over to our spot and sat on our bench. Then I walked along her street, but I felt ashamed and, before I’d quite reached her house, turned back without even glancing at the windows. I returned home in a state of dejection such as I’d never known before. What gloomy, damp, depressing weather! If only it had been fine I’d have walked around her neighborhood all night. But she’ll tell me everything tomorrow.

310 Fyodor Dostoevsky Of course, there wasn’t any letter today, but then, that’s quite natural. They’re together already. THE FOURTH NIGHT My God, what a way for it all to finish! Ah, what an ending! I got there by nine. She was already there, waiting. I caught sight of her when I was still at a distance. She was standing as she was the first time, leaning on the guardrail of the embankment, and didn’t hear me approach. “Nastenka!” I called out to her, managing to overcome my anguish. “Come here,” she said. “Hurry!” I looked at her without understanding. “Well, let me have the letter! You have it, haven’t you?” She clenched the railing with her hand. “No, I have no letter,” I said finally, “but haven’t you seen him yet?” She went terribly pale and stared at me. I had shattered her last hope. “Well, good luck to him,” she said in a gasping tone. “Good luck to him, if that’s the way he feels about me.” She lowered her eyes, then tried to look up at me, but couldn’t. For several moments more, she tried to get hold of herself, but she couldn’t. She turned her head away, leaned on the rail, and dissolved into tears. “Stop, stop . . .” was all I said. Looking at her, I hadn’t the strength to say more—and anyway, what else was there to say? “Don’t try to make me feel better,” she said, crying. “Don’t mention him, don’t tell me he’ll come, don’t persuade me he hasn’t thrown me over so cruelly, so callously as he has. What did I do wrong? Could it be something I wrote in that ill-fated letter?” At this point, sobs overwhelmed her. I couldn’t bear to see her this way. “Ah, how cruel and callous!” she said again. “And he never even bothered to write me a single line! If only he had answered that he didn’t need me, that he rejected me. But no, he hasn’t written a word during these three days! How easy it is for him to hurt and humiliate a poor girl whose only sin is to love him! Ah, how much I’ve been through in these three days! Ah, my God! My God! When I think that it was I who came to him in the first place, that I humbled myself before him, cried, begged him for a crumb of his love. . . . And after all that! . . . Listen,” she said, turning her flashing dark eyes to me, “it can’t be—it’s not natural—one of us, you or I, has made a mistake! Maybe he never got my letter! Maybe he

311WH ITE N I G HTS doesn’t know a thing to this minute! How is it possible—please explain to me, for God’s sake—for him to be so unspeakably rude to me? Not a single word! People show more pity than that for the lowest of creatures! Maybe he’s heard something; maybe someone has told him some slander about me? What do you think?” She shouted the last question at me. “I’ll go, Nastenka, and see him on your behalf tomorrow.” “Yes?” “I’ll tell him everything and ask him to explain.” “Yes? Yes?” “Write him a letter. Don’t say no. Wait! I’ll force him to respect what you did. He’ll be told everything, and if—” “No, my dear, no, that’s enough! No more about it; not one line, not one word, enough’s enough! I don’t know him. I don’t love him any more. I’ll forget him . . .” She couldn’t complete her sentence. “Calm yourself, calm yourself, Nastenka! Here, sit down,” I said, indicating the bench. “But I am calm! Stop fussing! It’s true. My tears will dry. You don’t really think that I’d go and drown myself or something, do you?” My heart was overflowing. 1 tried to speak but words wouldn’t come. “Tell me!” she said, catching hold of my hand, “you wouldn’t have acted that way, would you? You wouldn’t have hurled a shameful sneer at a girl who’d come to you herself; you wouldn’t have made fun of her weak, tender heart. You’d have spared her. You’d have realized that she was lonely, unable to take care of herself, unable to prevent herself from falling in love with you, that she hadn’t done anything wrong . . . that she hadn’t done anything . . . Ah, my God, my God!” “Nastenka!” I cried, completely overcome, “you’re torturing me, Nastenka! You’re tearing at my heart, you’re killing me! I can’t remain silent! I must tell you, at last, all that has accumulated inside me.” I got up from the bench as I said that. She took my hand, looking at me surprised. “What’s come over you?” she said. “Nastenka, everything I’m going to tell you now is absurd, impossible, idiotic! I know that it can never happen, but I can’t remain silent. So, in the name of your present suffering, I beg you to forgive me in advance!” “Well, what is it?” She stopped crying and looked at me closely. There was a strange curiosity in her eyes. “I know it cannot be, but I love you, Nastenka. That’s what it is. Now

312 Fyodor Dostoevsky you know everything.” I shrugged hopelessly. “Now see if you can still talk to me the way you did before, if you can listen to what I’m going to say—” “But what of it?” Nastenka interrupted me. “I’ve known all along that you loved me, but I thought that you just loved me simply—you know . . . Oh, good gracious!” “It was simply at first, Nastenka, but now—now—I’m exactly in the position you were in, Nastenka, when you came to him with that bundle of yours. In fact, my plight is even more hopeless than yours was then, for he wasn’t in love with anyone, but you are.” “What are you saying? You puzzle me altogether. But listen, why do you . . . I mean, how is that . . . Ah, God, I don’t know what I’m saying. But you . . .” She became completely confused. Her cheeks were on fire; she lowered her eyes. “Well, what am I to do, Nastenka, what? I’m to blame for having abused . . . but no, no, it’s not my fault, really—I know it, I feel it—for my heart tells me I’m right. There’s no way I can harm you or offend you! I was your friend before, and I’m your friend now. I haven’t betrayed a thing. And now, Nastenka, the tears are running down my cheeks; let ’em run, they aren’t hurting anyone. They’ll dry, Nastenka. . . .” “Oh come, sit down, sit down,” she said, pulling me down on the bench. “Ah, dear God!” “No, Nastenka, I won’t sit down; I can’t stay here. You shouldn’t see me any more. I’ll tell you all I have in my heart, then leave. I want only to tell you that you’d never have found out I love you. I’d have kept my secret. I wouldn’t have inflicted my selfishness upon you at such a moment. No! But I couldn’t keep it to myself. It was you who brought it up; it’s your fault, it’s all your fault. You can’t send me away.” “But no, of course not. I don’t intend to send you away,” Nastenka rattled off quickly, trying, the poor dear, to conceal her embarrassment. “So you won’t send me away? But I was going to run away from you anyway. I’ll leave too, but first I must tell you everything because I could hardly bear it when you were talking and crying and so full of despair, because . . . well, because—let me say it, Nastenka—because you have been rejected, because your love has been spurned. I—I felt so much love for you, Nastenka, so much love . . . and I felt terribly bitter because I couldn’t do anything for you, despite all that love . . . I felt I was being torn to pieces. I couldn’t keep silent, I had to talk. I had to, Nastenka.” “Yes, yes, tell me, talk to me!” Nastenka said with an inexpressible ges-

313WH ITE N I G HTS ture. “It must seem strange to you that I should say that, but go on, speak! I’ll explain later; I’ll explain everything!” “You’re sorry for me, Nastenka, you’re simply sorry for me. Well, the way I look at it—what is lost is lost, what has been done cannot be undone. Isn’t that so? Now you know everything, and that’s the point of departure. All right then, that’s fine, but listen to this: while you were sitting here crying, I thought—oh, please let me tell you what I thought—I thought— of course I’m well aware it cannot be, Nastenka—I thought that somehow or other, without it having anything to do with me . . . you didn’t love him any more. . . . In that case, Nastenka—I thought of that yesterday and the day before—I would’ve behaved in such a way that you’d have come to love me. . . . For you said yourself that you’d almost fallen in love with me, Nastenka, you said so yourself! And what then? Nothing much. That’s just about all I had to say! All I have left to describe is what it would have been like had you fallen in love with me. But there’s not much I can say about that. So listen, my friend Nastenka, for you’re still my friend—I am, of course, a simple man, poor and unimportant, but that’s not what matters (I keep straying from the subject out of shyness, Nastenka); only—I’d have loved you so much that even if you’d still gone on loving that man, you’d still never have felt my love as an imposition upon you. You’d only have heard a grateful, warm heart beating by your side and felt its proximity every second. . . . Ah, Nastenka, Nastenka, what have you done to me?” “Stop, I don’t want you to cry!” She got up quickly from the bench. “Come, get up, come with me, and stop crying! Stop it!” She dried my eyes with her handkerchief. “Come, perhaps I’ll tell you something. After all, he’s abandoned me, forgotten me, even though I still love him, for I don’t want to lie to you. . . . But tell me truly: if, for instance, I did come to love you—that is, if I only—oh, my dear, dear friend, when I think how I hurt you, when I laughed at your love, pretending to congratulate you for not falling in love with me—Ah, God, how could I have failed to foresee . . . How stupid I was! But now I’ve made up my mind—I’ll tell you everything.” “You know what, Nastenka, I’ll go away! I simply torment you when I’m near you. Now, because of me, you’re feeling guilty about making fun of me. But I don’t want to add to your sorrow. I am the guilty one, Nastenka, but forgive me and farewell!” “Wait, listen to me! Can’t you wait?” “Wait? Wait for what?” “I do love him but I’ll get over it. I’m bound to. In fact, I’m already get-

314 Fyodor Dostoevsky ting over it. I feel it. . . . One can never tell, I might even overcome it today. Because I hate him—he was making fun of me while you and I were crying here together. Because you haven’t pushed me away as he has; because you love me, and he never loved me; because, finally I myself—I love you. . . . Yes—I love you—I love you the way you love me. Remember, I told you that before; you heard me! Because you’re a better man than he is; you’re more honorable; because he . . .” Nastenka was so moved that she couldn’t finish. She let her head rest on my shoulder; from there it slipped onto my chest as she shed bitter tears. I tried to cheer her up, but she couldn’t stop crying. She just kept pressing my hand and repeating between sobs: “Wait, wait, I’ll get over it in a moment. . . . Don’t think these tears mean that . . . I just feel weak. . . .” Finally she stopped crying and wiped away her tears. We resumed our walk. I would have spoken, but she wanted me to wait a bit longer. So we walked in silence. At last she mustered up her courage and spoke. “You know,” she began in a weak, quivering voice that nevertheless had something in it that immediately clutched at my heart, making it throb with a sweet pain, “you mustn’t think I’m so fickle and irresponsible, that I’m so quick to forget and to betray. I’ve loved him for a whole year, and I swear to God that I’ve never, not once, been unfaithful to him. Not even in thought. But he’s scorned that; he’s made light of my feelings. Well, good luck to him! But he has also wounded me and slighted my love. No, I don’t love him, for I can only love one who is generous, understanding, and kind, because I myself am like that—so he’s unworthy of me. All right, I wish him all the best! It’s better like this than finding out later that I had deluded myself, than discovering too late what sort of man he is. . . . Anyway, it’s over! But come to think of it, my dear, maybe all my love for him was nothing but a delusion; maybe it began as a childish adventure; maybe it was caused by the wish to escape from under my grandmother’s thumb; maybe I was destined to love a man other than him, a man who could feel for me, understand me, and . . . But let’s leave that!” Nastenka was short of breath in her excitement. “All I want to say is that if, although I love—no, rather loved—him—although, you might say . . . If you think your love is great enough to displace my former love . . . If you will take pity on me and not leave me to face my destiny all alone without offering me consolation, support, and hope—if you’re willing to love me always as you love me now, then I swear to you that my gratitude—I mean my love—will, in the end, be worthy of your love. . . . Here, will you take my hand now?”

315WH ITE N I G HTS “Nastenka!” I cried, choked with sobs, “Nastenka! Oh, Nastenka!” “Enough, enough for now, that’s definitely enough,” she said, getting hold of herself. “Everything has been said now, hasn’t it? Right? And you’re happy and so am I. Not another word about it. Wait. Spare me. For heaven’s sake talk of something else!” “Right, Nastenka, enough! I’m happy now, I . . . So, Nastenka, let’s talk of something else. Quickly. Yes, I’m ready. . . .” We didn’t know what to say. We laughed. We cried. We exchanged thousands of disconnected, meaningless words. We walked along a street, then suddenly turned and retraced our steps. Without any apparent reason, we crossed the street to the opposite sidewalk; we went to the embankment. . . . We were like a couple of children. “I live all by myself now, Nastenka. But tomorrow . . . Of course, you know, I’m poor. I’ve only twelve hundred rubles, but it doesn’t matter, for—” “Of course not. And then my grandmother has a pension. So she won’t be a liability. She must, of course, come and live with us.” “Certainly, of course she must live with us. The only snag is that Matryona—” “Ah! And we have our Fyokla!” “Matryona’s kind. The only thing wrong with her is that she has absolutely no imagination. But it doesn’t matter!” “Never mind, they can live together. Anyway you’re coming over to live with us tomorrow.” “What did you say? Come to your place? That’s fine by me!” “Yes, you must rent our top-floor room. It’s empty now. There was an old woman living there, but she’s left, and I know Grandma wants to let it to a young man. I asked her, ‘Why a young man?’ and she said: ‘I’m getting old, see, but don’t you get it into your head, Nastenka, that I’m trying to marry you off.’ So I guessed that that was the reason.” “Ah, Nastenka!” We both laughed. “All right, that’s enough now,” she said. “And, by the way, where do you live? I’ve forgotten.” “Over there, by that bridge, in the Barashnikov House.” “The large house?” “Yes, it’s quite large.” “I know it. It’s a nice house, but forget it anyway and come and live with us. Quickly.” “I’ll come tomorrow, Nastenka, no later than tomorrow. I’m somewhat

316 Fyodor Dostoevsky late with my rent, but that’ll be all right. I’ll be getting my pay soon.” “You know what? Perhaps I’ll give private lessons. First I’ll learn something myself, then I’ll teach it.” “It’s all turned out wonderfully . . . and soon I’m due for a bonus, Nastenka.” “Then, starting tomorrow, you’ll be my lodger.” “Yes, and well go to see The Barber of Seville, for they’ll be putting it on again soon.” “Yes, yes, let’s,” Nastenka said, laughing, “and if not The Barber, well go and see something else.” “All right, something else then. That would be better, of course. I should have thought of it myself. . . .” Talking that way, we walked as if in a drunken haze, like walking through clouds, with no idea of what was going on around us. We stopped, chatted without moving from the spot, then set off walking again. God knows where, as we laughed, cried, and laughed again. . . . Nastenka decided to return home, and I didn’t dare detain her; I accompanied her to her very door, but a quarter of an hour later, we found ourselves back at our favorite bench. She sighed and a tear glistened in her eye again; I became frightened, turned cold . . . But she immediately pressed my hand and pulled me along behind her, and we again walked and chatted and talked. . . . “It’s time for me to go back home now,” Nastenka declared finally. “Enough of this childish stuff!” “All right, Nastenka, but I—I won’t be able to go to sleep tonight, so I don’t think I’ll go home.” “I don’t expect to sleep either. Nevertheless, I want you to see me to my door.” “Most certainly.” “But this time it must be for good.” “Yes, yes, of course.” “Do I have your promise? For I must get home in the end.” “I promise,” I said, laughing. “Then let’s go.” “Let’s go, Nastenka,” I said. “And look at the sky: it will be a wonderful day tomorrow. What a blue sky! What a moon! Look at that yellow cloud about to veil the moon. Look at it! look at it—no, it has just missed the moon. Look at it—look!” But Nastenka wasn’t looking at the cloud. She stood still as a tree. Then, after a while, she pressed herself against me in a strange way. Her hand

317WH ITE N I G HTS was trembling in mine. I looked at her. She pressed herself even closer to me. At that moment, a young man was passing nearby. Suddenly he stopped and gave us a close, scrutinizing look. Then he walked a few more steps. My heart throbbed. “Nastenka,” I said very softly, “who is it, Nastenka?” “It’s him!” she whispered, pressing herself even more closely to me. I could hardly keep my feet. “Nastenka, Nastenka, is that you?” I heard a voice behind us, and the young man came toward us. My God, that cry! The shiver that passed through her! She tore herself from my arm and rushed toward him. I stood staring at them. I was dead. But she hardly had time to seize his hand and fling herself into his arms before she turned her head and looked at me. Then, with the speed of lightning, she was by me, her arms were around my neck, and before I knew what had happened, I felt her passionate kiss. Still without uttering a word, she again rushed toward him, caught his hand, and hurried away with him. For a long time I kept following them with my eyes . . . Finally they vanished from sight. THE MORNING My nights were over. It was the morning after. The weather was bad. It was raining. The rain beat a gloomy tattoo on my window. It was dark inside my room and bleak outside the windows. My head ached. Objects swam before my eyes. Fever was sneaking along my limbs. “There’s a letter for you.” Matryona’s voice hovered somewhere over me. “It has just come.” I jumped up. “What letter? From whom?” “How do I know who it’s from? Look; maybe it says inside who wrote it.” I opened it. It was from her. It said: Please, please forgive me! I beg you on my knees. Forgive me! I deceived both you and myself. It was a dream, a mirage. I feel terrible about you now. Forgive me, forgive me! Don’t be too hard on me, for what I feel for you hasn’t changed. I told you I loved you—well, I do love you, and it’s even more than love. Oh, God, if only it were possible to love both of you at the same time! Ah, if only you could be him!

318 Fyodor Dostoevsky “Oh, if only he could be you.” The thought flashed through my head. I remembered your very words, Nastenka. The letter continued: God only knows what I wouldn’t do for you! I know that you feel sad and depressed. I have hurt you. But, as you know, we won’t resent for long a wound inflicted by those we love, and you do love me! Thank you! Yes, thank you for that love! It lingers now in my memory like a sweet dream that remains long after awakening. I will always remember the moment when you opened your heart to me so fraternally and when you so nobly accepted the gift of my heart—wounded as it was—to love and cherish it, and heal its wounds. . . . If you forgive me, my memory of you will be ennobled by gratitude that will never fade. I shall cherish that memory, be faithful to it always, never betray it, never betray my heart—it is too constant for that. Only yesterday it went back to the one to whom it belongs forever. We’ll meet again. You’ll come to see us. You won’t abandon us. You’ll always be my friend and my brother. And when we meet, you’ll give me your hand, won’t you? You’ll give it to me because you love me as much as ever. Please love me, and don’t abandon me, because I love you so much at this moment, because I’m worthy of your love, because I’ll earn it. . . . oh, my dear, dear friend! I’m marrying him next week. He came back to me full of love. He hadn’t forgotten me. . . . You won’t be angry with me for writing this about him, will you? I want to come and see you with him. You’ll like him, won’t you? So forgive, remember, and go on loving your Nastenka I read and reread that letter. I was on the verge of tears. At last it fell from my hands, and I covered my face. “Here, look at that!” Matryona said. “What is it, old woman?” “Why, I’ve swept all them cobwebs from the ceiling so now you can marry any time and, while you’re at it, invite a houseful of guests.” I looked at Matryona. She was still vigorous. She was a very young old woman, but I suddenly visualized her all wrinkled and shrunk, an invalid. And I don’t know why, but my whole room suddenly aged the way an old woman ages. The walls and the ceilings peeled, everything faded, cobwebs multiplied. . . . And when I looked out of the window, I don’t know why, but the house opposite turned dimmer too, the plaster on its columns fell off, the cornices became all grimy and full of cracks, and the walls, which used to be dark yellow, turned grayish.

319WH ITE N I G HTS A ray of sun that for a second had broken through a rain cloud disappeared behind it again, and everything darkened once more. Or was it just my sad and barren future that flashed before me? Did I see myself exactly the way I am now, fifteen years later, having aged in this very room, just as lonely, still living with Matryona, who hasn’t grown any more intelligent in all these years. I remember the hurt inflicted upon me, Nastenka! But I never sent a dark cloud to sail over your clear, serene sky. I never reproached you, never made you sad or gave you a secret guilty feeling. I never trampled any of the tender flowers that you entwined in your black curls when you walked to the altar with him. Oh, never, never! So may the sky lie cloudless over you, and your smile be bright and carefree; be blessed for the moment of bliss and happiness you gave to another heart, a lonely and a grateful one. My God, a moment of bliss. Why, isn’t that enough for a whole lifetime? Translated by Andrew R. MacAndrew.

320 John Galsworthy 1867–1933 John Galsworthy was born at Coombe, Surrey, on August 14, 1867.He attended Harrow and New College, Oxford. He was enrolled as a barrister but turned to literature. In 1892–93, he was a passenger aboard the ship Torrens, whose ports included London and Adelaide in Australia. Joseph Conrad was her chief mate. They became close friends. Years later, Conrad’s second son was born in Galsworthy’s house in London. His first two novels were not much noticed, but The Man of Property, published in 1906, established his reputation. It was the first novel in a series to be called The Forsyte Saga, his major work. This embraced The Indian Summer of a Forsyte in 1918, In Chancery, Awakening, and the final To Let in 1921. The Forsyte Saga made Galsworthy the chief historian of manners for the British upper middle class during Victoria’s last years and the reign of Edward VII. Almost from the beginning, he had another string to his bow. He wrote for the stage. His plays became a staple of the English theater in his lifetime. Beginning with The Silver Box in 1906, he touched on social problems in such dramas as Strife in 1909 and Justice in the following year. These were followed by The Pigeon, The Eldest Son, The Fugitive, The Skin Game, and in 1922 his best-known later work for the theater, Loyalties. But he did not neglect the novel. In 1924 The White Monkey, a famous best seller of that year, became the first work in a new trilogy, A Modern Comedy. It was rounded out with The Silver Spoon in 1926 and Swan Song in 1928. His later works included On Forsyte ’Change, Maid in Waiting, and Flowering Wilderness. In 1925 his short stories were collected in Caravan. He was awarded

321John Galsworthy the Order of Merit in 1929 and the Nobel Prize for literature in 1932. He died on January 31, 1933. The Apple-Tree is a story of first love, an idyl of the English countryside at that moment in spring when all the orchard trees turn white under the moon. It is the story of a young man hesitating between two girls. Is there an older and simpler story? We can imagine it happening under the first Pharaoh. Yet The Apple-Tree is more than a simple tale of love. It is also the story of a man in a moral dilemma. Frank Ashurst, the central character, and a member of the English upper class, must choose between Stella—a young girl whose background is very similar to his own and with whom he feels very much at ease, and Megan—a simple, passionate country girl with whom, for the moment, he is deeply in love. He has been stirred to the very depths of his soul— as the phrase goes—by his love for Megan, and he knows that she, too, feels an intense passion for him. The choice would appear to be an easy one: Megan. But Ashurst fears—rather, he knows—that his love for Megan cannot last. Eventually he must return to the city, and her charm would be lost there. Thus he is faced with one of those terrible dilemmas that we have all encountered and will encounter again: he must choose between two evils. If he returns to Megan, he will be encouraging a love which can endure only for a moment; if he does not return to her, he will be abandoning her at the moment when her hopes are highest. Is Ashurst’s dilemma a genuine one? Is he really concerned about Megan, or is he a snob who has suddenly realized that he has come close to marrying a girl beneath his class? If he is a snob, is he consciously so, or is he an unwitting victim of the class system? Each reader of The Apple-Tree will probably answer these questions in a different way. Was an enduring love between Ashurst and Megan really impossible? Freud thought so, but he did not find fault with either of the lovers. He placed the blame on civilization itself. In commenting on the story, he said, “It shows in a very moving and forcible way how there is no longer any place in present-day civilized life for a simple natural love between two human beings.”1 1 See Civilization and Its Discontents in Great Books of the Western World.

322 John Galsworthy Was Freud right? If he was, why does civilization make such love impossible? Perhaps because it endangers civilization. Such love overturns all barriers, it breaks down all walls, it upsets all arrangements. Civilization cannot exist without barriers, walls, and arrangements. And civilization is a valuable thing—more valuable than love.

323 The Apple-Tree The Apple-tree, the singing, and the gold. Murray’s Hippolytus of Euripides. n their silver-wedding day Ashurst and his wife were motor- ing along the outskirts of the moor, intending to crown the festival by stopping the night at Torquay, where they had first met. This was the idea of Stella Ashurst, whose character contained a streak of sentiment. If she had long lost the blue-eyed, flowerlike charm, the cool slim purity of face and form, the apple-blossom colouring, which had so swiftly and so oddly affected Ashurst twenty-six years ago, she was still at forty-three a comely and faithful companion, whose cheeks were faintly mottled, and whose grey-blue eyes had acquired a certain fullness. It was she who had stopped the car where the common rose steeply to the left, and a narrow strip of larch and beech, with here and there a pine, stretched out towards the valley between the road and the first long high hill of the full moor. She was looking for a place where they might lunch, for Ashurst never looked for anything; and this, between the golden furze and the feathery green larches smelling of lemons in the last sun of April— this, with a view into the deep valley and up to the long moor heights, seemed fitting to the decisive nature of one who sketched in water-colours, and loved romantic spots. Grasping her paintbox, she got out. “Won’t this do, Frank?” Ashurst, rather like a bearded Schiller, grey in the wings, tall, long- legged, with large remote grey eyes, which sometimes filled with meaning and became almost beautiful, with nose a little to one side, and bearded lips just open—Ashurst, forty-eight, and silent, grasped the luncheon basket, and got out too. “Oh! Look, Frank! A grave!” By the side of the road, where the track from the top of the common

324 John Galsworthy crossed it at right angles and ran through a gate past the narrow wood, was a thin mound of turf, six feet by one, with a moorstone to the west, and on it some one had thrown a black-thorn spray and a handful of blue bells. Ashurst looked, and the poet in him moved. At cross-roads—a suicide’s grave! Poor mortals with their superstitions! Whoever lay there, though, had the best of it, no clammy sepulchre among other hideous graves carved with futilities—just a rough stone, the wide sky, and wayside blessings! And, without comment, for he had learned not to be a philosopher in the bosom of his family, he strode away up on to the common, dropped the luncheon basket under a wall, spread a rug for his wife to sit on—she would turn up from her sketching when she was hungry—and took from his pocket Murray’s translation of the “Hippolytus.” He had soon finished reading of “The Cyprian” and her revenge, and looked at the sky instead. And watching the white clouds so bright against the intense blue, Ashurst, on his silver-wedding day, longed for—he knew not what. Maladjusted to life—man’s organism! One’s mode of life might be high and scrupulous, but there was always an undercurrent of greediness, a hankering, and sense of waste. Did women have it too? Who could tell? And yet, men who gave vent to their appetites for novelty, their riotous longings for new adventures, new risks, new pleasures, these suffered, no doubt, from the reverse side of starvation, from surfeit. No getting out of it—a maladjusted animal, civilized man! There could be no garden of his choosing, of “the Apple-tree, the singing, and the gold,” in the words of that lovely Greek chorus, no achievable elysium in life, or lasting haven of happiness for any man with a sense of beauty—nothing which could compare with the captured loveliness in a work of art, set down forever, so that to look on it or read was always to have the same precious sense of exaltation and restful inebriety. Life no doubt had moments with that quality of beauty, of unbidden flying rapture, but the trouble was, they lasted no longer than the span of a cloud’s flight over the sun; impossible to keep them with you, as Art caught beauty and held it fast. They were fleeting as one of the glimmering or golden visions one had of the soul in nature, glimpses of its remote and brooding spirit. Here, with the sun hot on his face, a cuckoo calling from a thorn-tree, and in the air the honey savour of gorse—here among the little fronds of the young fern, the starry black-thorn, while the bright clouds drifted by high above the hills and dreamy valleys—here and now was such a glimpse. But in a moment it would pass—as the face of Pan, which looks round the corner of a rock, vanishes at your stare. And suddenly he sat up. Surely there was something familiar about this view, this bit of common, that ribbon

325TH E AP PLE-TRE E of road, the old wall behind him. While they were driving he had not been taking notice—never did; thinking of far things or of nothing—but now he saw! Twenty-six years ago, just at this time of year, from the farm- house within half a mile of this very spot he had started for that day in Torquay whence it might be said he had never returned. And a sudden ache beset his heart; he had stumbled on just one of those past moments in his life whose beauty and rapture he had failed to arrest, whose wings had fluttered away into the unknown; he had stumbled on a buried memory, a wild sweet time, swiftly choked and ended. And, turning on his face, he rested his chin on his hands, and stared at the short grass where the little blue milkwort was growing. . . . And this is what he remembered. On the first of May, after their last year together at college, Frank Ashurst and his friend Robert Garton were on a tramp. They had walked that day from Brent, intending to make Chagford, but Ashurst’s football knee had given out, and according to their map they had still some seven miles to go. They were sitting on a bank beside the road, where a track crossed alongside a wood, resting the knee and talking of the universe, as young men will. Both were over six feet, and thin as rails; Ashurst pale, idealistic, full of absence; Garton queer, round-the-corner, knotted, curly, like some primeval beast. Both had a literary bent; neither wore a hat. Ashurst’s hair was smooth, pale, wavy, and had a way of rising on either side of his brow, as if always being flung back; Garton’s was a kind of dark unfathomed mop. They had not met a soul for miles. “My dear fellow,” Garton was saying, “pity’s only an effect of self- consciousness; it’s a disease of the last five thousand years. The world was happier without.” Ashurst, following the clouds with his eyes, answered: “It’s the pearl in the oyster, anyway.” “My dear chap, all our modern unhappiness comes from pity. Look at animals, and Red Indians, limited to feeling their own occasional misfortunes; then look at ourselves—never free from feeling the toothaches of others. Let’s get back to feeling for nobody, and have a better time.” “You’ll never practise that.” Garton pensively stirred the hotchpotch of his hair. “To attain full growth, one mustn’t be squeamish. To starve oneself emotionally’s a mistake. All emotion is to the good—enriches life.” “Yes, and when it runs up against chivalry?” “Ah! That’s so English! If you speak of emotion the English always

326 John Galsworthy think you want something physical, and are shocked. They’re afraid of passion, but not of lust—oh, no!—so long as they can keep it secret.” Ashurst did not answer; he had plucked a blue floweret, and was twiddling it against the sky. A cuckoo began calling from a thorn-tree. The sky, the flowers, the songs of birds! Robert was talking through his hat! And he said: “Well, let’s go on, and find some farm where we can put up.” In uttering those words, he was conscious of a girl coming down from the common just above them. She was outlined against the sky, carrying a basket, and you could see that sky through the crook of her arm. And Ashurst, who saw beauty without wondering how it could advantage him, thought: “How pretty!” The wind, blowing her dark frieze skirt against her legs, lifted her battered peacock Tam o’ Shanter; her greyish blouse was worn and old, her shoes were split, her little hands rough and red, her neck browned. Her dark hair waved untidy across her broad forehead, her face was short, her upper lip short, showing a glint of teeth, her brows were straight and dark, her lashes long and dark, her nose straight; but her grey eyes were the wonder—dewy as if opened for the first time that day. She looked at Ashurst—perhaps he struck her as strange, limping along without a hat, with his large eyes on her, and his hair flung back. He could not take off what was not on his head, but put up his hand in a salute, and said: “Can you tell us if there’s a farm near here where we could stay the night? I’ve gone lame.” “There’s only our farm near, Sir.” She spoke without shyness, in a pretty, soft, crisp voice. “And where is that?” “Down here, Sir.” “Would you put us up?” “Oh! I think we would.” “Will you show us the way?” “Yes, Sir.” He limped on, silent, and Garton took up the catechism. “Are you a Devonshire girl?” “No, Sir.” “What then?” “From Wales.” “Ah! I thought you were a Celt; so it’s not your farm?” “My aunt’s, Sir.” “And your uncle’s?” “He is dead.”

327TH E AP PLE-TRE E “Who farms it, then?” “My aunt, and my three cousins.” “But your uncle was a Devonshire man?” “Yes, Sir.” “Have you lived here long?” “Seven years.” “And how d’you like it after Wales?” “I don’t know, Sir.” “I suppose you don’t remember?” “Oh, yes! But it is different.” “I believe you!” Ashurst broke in suddenly: “How old are you?” “Seventeen, Sir.” “And what’s your name?” “Megan David.” “This is Robert Garton, and I am Frank Ashurst. We wanted to get on to Chagford.” “It is a pity your leg is hurting you.” Ashurst smiled, and when he smiled his face was rather beautiful. Descending past the narrow wood, they came on the farm suddenly— a long, low, stone-built dwelling with casement windows, in a farm- yard where pigs and fowls and an old mare were straying. A short steep- up grass hill behind was crowned with a few Scotch firs, and in front, an old orchard of apple-trees, just breaking into flower, stretched down to a stream and a long wild meadow. A little boy with oblique dark eyes was shepherding a pig, and by the house door stood a woman, who came towards them. The girl said: “It is Mrs. Narracombe, my aunt.” “Mrs. Narracombe, my aunt,” had a quick, dark eye like a mother wild duck’s, and something of the same snaky turn about her neck. “We met your niece on the road,” said Ashurst; “she thought you might perhaps put us up for the night.” Mrs. Narracombe, taking them in from head to heel, answered: “Well, I can, if you don’t mind one room. Megan, get the spare room ready, and a bowl of cream. You’ll be wanting tea, I suppose.” Passing through a sort of porch made by two yew-trees and some flowering-currant bushes, the girl disappeared into the house, her peacock Tam o’ Shanter bright athwart that rosy-pink and the dark green of the yews. “Will you come into the parlour and rest your leg? You’ll be from college, perhaps?” “We were, but we’ve gone down now.”

328 John Galsworthy Mrs. Narracombe nodded sagely. The parlour, brick-floored, with bare table and shiny chairs and sofa stuffed with horsehair, seemed never to have been used, it was so terribly clean. Ashurst sat down at once on the sofa, holding his lame knee between his hands, and Mrs. Narracombe gazed at him. He was the only son of a late professor of chemistry, but people found a certain lordliness in one who was often so sublimely unconscious of them. “Is there a stream where we could bathe?” “There’s the strame at the bottom of the orchard, but sittin’ down you’ll not be covered!” “How deep?” “Well, ’tis about a foot and a half, maybe.” “Oh! That’ll do fine. Which way?” “Down the lane, through the second gate on the right, an’ the pool’s by the big apple-tree that stands by itself. There’s trout there, if you can tickle them.” “They’re more likely to tickle us!” Mrs. Narracombe smiled. “There’ll be the tea ready when you come back.” The pool, formed by the damming of a rock, had a sandy bottom; and the big apple-tree, lowest in the orchard, grew so close that its boughs almost overhung the water; it was in leaf, and all but in flower— its crimson buds just bursting. There was not room for more than one at a time in that narrow bath, and Ashurst waited his turn, rubbing his knee and gazing at the wild meadow, all rocks and thorn-trees and field-flowers, with a grove of beeches beyond, raised up on a flat mound. Every bough was swinging in the wind, every spring bird calling, and a slanting sunlight dappled the grass. He thought of Theocritus, and the river Cherwell, of the moon, and the maiden with the dewy eyes; of so many things that he seemed to think of nothing; and he felt absurdly happy. During a late and sumptuous tea with eggs to it, cream and jam, and thin, fresh cakes touched with saffron, Garton descanted on the Celts. It was about the period of the Celtic awakening, and the discovery that there was Celtic blood about this family had excited one who believed that he was a Celt himself. Sprawling on a horsehair chair, with a handmade cigarette dribbling from the corner of his curly lips, he had been plunging his cold pin-points of eyes into Ashurst’s and praising the refinement of the Welsh. To come out of Wales into England was like the change from china to earthenware! Frank, as a d——d Englishman, had

329TH E AP PLE-TRE E not of course perceived the exquisite refinement and emotional capacity of that Welsh girl! And, delicately stirring in the dark mat of his still wet hair, he explained how exactly she illustrated the writings of the Welsh bard Morgan-ap-Something in the twelfth century. Ashurst, full length on the horsehair sofa, and jutting far beyond its end, smoked a deeply coloured pipe, and did not listen, thinking of the girl’s face when she brought in a relay of cakes. It had been exactly like looking at a flower, or some other pretty sight in Nature—till, with a funny little shiver, she had lowered her glance and gone out, quiet as a mouse. “Let’s go to the kitchen,” said Garton, “and see some more of her.” The kitchen was a whitewashed room with rafters, to which were attached smoked hams; there were flower-pots on the window-sill, and guns hanging on nails, queer mugs, china and pewter, and portraits of Queen Victoria. A long, narrow table of plain wood was set with bowls and spoons, under a string of high-hung onions; two sheep-dogs and three cats lay here and there. On one side of the recessed fire-place sat two small boys, idle, and good as gold; on the other sat a stout, light- eyed, red-faced youth with hair and lashes the colour of the tow he was running through the barrel of a gun; between them Mrs. Narracombe dreamily stirred some savoury-scented stew in a large pot. Two other youths, oblique-eyed, dark-haired, rather sly-faced, like the two little boys, were talking together and lolling against the wall; and a short, elderly, clean-shaven man in corduroys, seated in the window, was conning a battered journal. The girl Megan seemed the only active creature—drawing cider and passing with the jugs from cask to table. Seeing them thus about to eat, Garton said: “Ah! If you’ll let us, we’ll come back when supper’s over,” and without waiting for an answer they withdrew again to the parlour. But the colour in the kitchen, the warmth, the scents, and all those faces heightened the bleakness of their shiny room, and they resumed their seats moodily. “Regular gypsy type, those boys. There was only one Saxon—the fellow cleaning the gun. That girl is a very subtle study psychologically.” Ashurst’s lips twitched. Garton seemed to him an ass just then. Subtle study! She was a wild flower. A creature it did you good to look at. Study! Garton went on: “Emotionally she would be wonderful. She wants awakening.” “Are you going to awaken her?” Garton looked at him and smiled. “How coarse and English you are!” that curly smile seemed saying.

330 John Galsworthy And Ashurst puffed his pipe. Awaken her! This fool had the best opinion of himself! He threw up the window and leaned out. Dusk had gathered thick. The farm buildings and the wheel-house were all dim and bluish, the apple-trees but a blurred wilderness; the air smelled of wood smoke from the kitchen fire. One bird going to bed later than the others was uttering a half-hearted twitter, as though surprised at the darkness. From the stable came the snuffle and stamp of a feeding horse. And away over there was the loom of the moor, and away and away the shy stars which had not as yet full light, pricking white through the deep blue heavens. A quavering owl hooted. Ashurst drew a deep breath. What a night to wander out in! A padding of unshod hoofs came up the lane, and three dim, dark shapes passed—ponies on an evening march. Their heads, black and fuzzy, showed above the gate. At the tap of his pipe, and a shower of little sparks, they shied round and scampered. A bat went fluttering past, uttering its almost inaudible “chip, chip.” Ashurst held out his hand; on the upturned palm he could feel the dew. Suddenly from overhead he heard little burring boys’ voices, little thumps of boots thrown down, and another voice, crisp and soft—the girl’s putting them to bed, no doubt; and nine clear words: “No, Rick, you can’t have the cat in bed”; then came a skirmish of giggles and gurgles, a soft slap, a laugh so low and pretty that it made him shiver a little. A blowing sound, and the glim of the candle which was fingering the dusk above went out; silence reigned. Ashurst withdrew into the room and sat down; his knee pained him, and his soul felt gloomy. “You go to the kitchen,” he said; “I’m going to bed.” For Ashurst the wheel of slumber was wont to turn noiseless and slick and swift, but though he seemed sunk in sleep when his companion came up, he was really wide awake; and long after Garton, smothered in the other bed of that low-roofed room, was worshiping darkness with his upturned nose, he heard the owls. Barring the discomfort of his knee, it was not unpleasant—the cares of life did not loom large in night watches for this young man. In fact he had none; just enrolled a barrister, with literary aspirations, the world before him, no father or mother, and four hundred a year of his own. Did it matter where he went, what he did, or when he did it? His bed, too, was hard, and this preserved him from fever. He lay, sniffing the scent of the night which drifted into the low room through the open casement close to his head. Except for a definite irritation with his friend, natural when you have tramped with a man for three days, Ashurst’s memories and visions that sleepless night were

331TH E AP PLE-TRE E kindly and wistful and exciting. One vision, specially clear and unreasonable, for he had not even been conscious of noting it, was the face of the youth cleaning the gun; its intent, stolid, yet startled uplook at the kitchen doorway quickly shifted to the girl carrying the cider jug. This red, blue-eyed, light- lashed, tow-haired face stuck as firmly in his memory as the girl’s own face, so dewy and simple. But at last, in the square of darkness through the uncurtained casement, he saw day coming, and heard one hoarse and sleepy caw. Then followed silence, dead as ever, till the song of a blackbird, not properly awake, adventured into the hush. And, from staring at the framed brightening light, Ashurst fell asleep. Next day his knee was badly swollen; the walking tour was obviously over. Garton, due back in London on the morrow, departed at midday with an ironical smile which left a scar of irritation—healed the moment his loping figure vanished round the corner of the steep lane. All day Ashurst rested his knee, in a green-painted wooden chair on the patch of grass by the yew-tree porch, where the sunlight distilled the scent of stocks and gillyflowers, and a ghost of scent from the flowering-currant bushes. Beatifically he smoked, dreamed, watched. A farm in spring is all birth—young things coming out of bud and shell, and human beings watching over the process with faint excitement feeding and tending what has been born. So still the young man sat that a mother goose, with stately cross-footed waddle, brought her six yellow- necked grey-backed goslings to strop their little beaks against the grass blades at his feet. Now and again Mrs. Narracombe or the girl Megan would come and ask if he wanted anything, and he would smile and say: “Nothing, thanks. It’s splendid here.” Towards tea-time they came out together, bearing a long poultice of some dark stuff in a bowl, and after a long and solemn scrutiny of his swollen knee, bound it on. When they were gone, he thought of the girl’s soft “Oh!”—of her pitying eyes, and the little wrinkle in her brow. And again he felt that unreasoning irritation against his departed friend, who had talked such rot about her. When she brought out his tea, he said: “How did you like my friend, Megan?” She forced down her upper lip, as if afraid that to smile was not polite. “He was a funny gentleman; he made us laugh. I think he is very clever.” “What did he say to make you laugh?” “He said I was a daughter of the bards. What are they?” “Welsh poets, who lived hundreds of years ago.” “Why am I their daughter, please?” “He meant that you were the sort of girl they sang about.”

332 John Galsworthy She wrinkled her brows. “I think he likes to joke. Am I?” “Would you believe me, if I told you?” “Oh, yes.” “Well, I think he was right.” She smiled. And Ashurst thought: “You are a pretty thing!” “He said, too, that Joe was a Saxon type. What would that be?” “Which is Joe? With the blue eyes and red face?” “Yes. My uncle’s nephew.” “Not your cousin, then?” “No.” “Well, he meant that Joe was like the men who came over to England about fourteen hundred years ago, and conquered it.” “Oh! I know about them; but is he?” “Garton’s crazy about that sort of thing; but I must say Joe does look a bit Early Saxon.” “Yes.” That “yes” tickled Ashurst. It was so crisp and graceful, so conclusive, and politely acquiescent in what was evidently Greek to her. “He said that all the other boys were regular gypsies. He should not have said that. My aunt laughed, but she didn’t like it, of course, and my cousins were angry. Uncle was a farmer—farmers are not gypsies. It is wrong to hurt people.” Ashurst wanted to take her hand and give it a squeeze, but he only answered: “Quite right, Megan. By the way, I heard you putting the little ones to bed last night.” She flushed a little. “Please to drink your tea—it is getting cold. Shall I get you some fresh?” “Do you ever have time to do anything for yourself?” “Oh, yes.” “I’ve been watching, but I haven’t seen it yet.” She wrinkled her brows in a puzzled frown, and her colour deepened. When she was gone, Ashurst thought: “Did she think I was chaffing her? I wouldn’t for the world!” He was at that age when to some men “Beauty’s a flower,” as the poet says, and inspires in them the thoughts of chivalry. Never very conscious of his surroundings, it was some time before he was aware that the youth whom Garton had called “a Saxon type” was standing outside the stable door; and a fine bit of colour he made in his soiled brown velvet cords, muddy gaiters, and blue shirt; red-armed, red-faced, the sun turning his hair from tow to flax; immovably stolid,

333TH E AP PLE-TRE E persistent, unsmiling he stood. Then, seeing Ashurst looking at him, he crossed the yard at that gait of the young countryman always ashamed not to be slow and heavy-dwelling on each leg, and disappeared round the end of the house towards the kitchen entrance. A chill came over Ashurst’s mood. Clods! With all the good will in the world, how impossible to get on terms with them! And yet—see that girl! Her shoes were split, her hands rough; but—what was it? Was it really her Celtic blood, as Garton had said?—she was a lady born, a jewel, though probably she could do no more than just read and write! The elderly, clean-shaven man he had seen last night in the kitchen had come into the yard with a dog, driving the cows to their milking. Ashurst saw that he was lame. “You’ve got some good ones there!” The lame man’s face brightened. He had the upward look in his eyes which prolonged suffering often brings. “Yeas; they’m praaper buties; gude milkers tu.” “I bet they are.” “ ’Ope as yure leg’s better, zurr.” “Thank you, it’s getting on.” The lame man touched his own: “I know what ’tes, meself; ’tes a main worritin’ thing, the knee. I’ve a ’ad mine bad this ten year.” Ashurst made the sound of sympathy which comes so readily from those who have an independent income, and the lame man smiled again. “Mustn’t complain, though—they mighty near ’ad it off.” “Ho!” “Yeas; an’ compared with what ’twas, ’tis almost so gude as nu.” “They’ve put a bandage of splendid stuff on mine.” “The maid she picks et. She’m a gude maid wi’ the flowers. There’s folks zeem to know the healin’ in things. My mother was a rare one for that. ’Ope as yu’ll zune be better, zurr. Goo ahn, therr!” Ashurst smiled. “Wi’ the flowers!” A flower herself. That evening, after his supper of cold duck, junket, and cider, the girl came in. “Please, Auntie says—will you try a piece of our May-day cake?” “If I may come to the kitchen for it.” “Oh, yes! You’ll be missing your friend.” “Not I. But are you sure no one minds?” “Who would mind? We shall be very pleased.” Ashurst rose too suddenly for his stiff knee, staggered and subsided. The girl gave a little gasp, and held out her hands. Ashurst took them,

334 John Galsworthy small, rough, brown; checked his impulse to put them to his lips, and let her pull him up. She came close beside him, offering her shoulder. And leaning on her he walked across the room. That shoulder seemed quite the pleasantest thing he had ever touched. But he had presence of mind enough to catch his stick out of the rack, and withdraw his hand before arriving at the kitchen. That night he slept like a top, and woke with his knee of almost normal size. He again spent the morning in his chair on the grass patch, scribbling down verses; but in the afternoon he wandered about with the two little boys Nick and Rick. It was Saturday, so they were early home from school; quick, shy, dark little rascals of seven and six, soon talkative, for Ashurst had a way with children. By four o’clock they had shown him all their methods of destroying life, except the tickling of trout; and with breeches tucked up, lay on their stomachs over the trout stream, pretending they had this accomplishment also. They tickled nothing, of course, for their giggling and shouting scared every spotted thing away. Ashurst, on a rock at the edge of the beech clump, watched them, and listened to the cuckoos, till Nick, the elder and less persevering, came up and stood beside him. “The gypsy bogle zets on that stone,” he said. “What gypsy bogle?” “Dunno; never zeen ’e. Megan zays ’e zets there; an’ old Jim zeed ’e once. ’E was zettin’ there naight afore our pony kicked-in father’s ’ead. ’E plays the viddle.” “What tune does he play?” “Dunno.” “What’s he like?” “ ’E’s black. Old Jim zays ’e’s all over ’air. ’E’s a praaper bogle. ’E don’ come only at naight.” The little boy’s oblique dark eyes slid round. “D’yu think ’e might want to take me away? Megan’s feared of ’e.” “Has she seen him?” “No. She’s not afeared o’ yu.” “I should think not. Why should she be?” “She zays a prayer for yu.” “How do you know that, you little rascal?” “When I was asleep, she said: ‘God bless us all, an’ Mr. Ashes.’ I ’eard ’er whisperin’.” “You’re a little ruffian to tell what you hear when you’re not meant to hear it!”

335TH E AP PLE-TRE E The little boy was silent. Then he said aggressively: “I can skin rabbets. Megan, she can’t bear skinnin’ ’em. I like blood.” “Oh! you do; you little monster!” “What’s that?” “A creature that likes hurting others.” The little boy scowled. “They’m only dead rabbets, what us eats.” “Quite right, Nick. I beg your pardon.” “I can skin frogs, tu.” But Ashurst had become absent. “God bless us all, and Mr. Ashes!” And puzzled by that sudden inaccessibility, Nick ran back to the stream where the giggling and shouts again uprose at once. When Megan brought his tea, he said: “What’s the gypsy bogle, Megan?” She looked up, startled. “He brings bad things.” “Surely you don’t believe in ghosts?” “I hope I will never see him.” “Of course you won’t. There aren’t such things. What old Jim saw was a pony.” “No! There are bogles in the rocks; they are the men who lived long ago.” “They aren’t gypsies, anyway; those old men were dead long before gypsies came.” She said simply: “They are all bad.” “Why? If there are any, they’re only wild, like the rabbits. The flowers aren’t bad for being wild; the thorn-trees were never planted—and you don’t mind them. I shall go down at night and look for your bogle, and have a talk with him.” “Oh, no! Oh, no!” “Oh, yes! I shall go and sit on his rock.” She clasped her hands together: “Oh, please!” “Why! What does it matter if anything happens to me?” She did not answer; and in a sort of pet he added: “Well, I daresay I shan’t see him, because I suppose I must be off soon.” “Soon?” “Your aunt won’t want to keep me here.” “Oh, yes! We always let lodgings in summer.” Fixing his eyes on her face, he asked: “Would you like me to stay?” “Yes.”

336 John Galsworthy “I’m going to say a prayer for you to-night!” She flushed crimson, frowned, and went out of the room. He sat cursing himself, till his tea was stewed. It was as if he had hacked with his thick boots at a clump of blue-bells. Why had he said such a silly thing? Was he just a towny college ass like Robert Garton, as far from understanding this girl? Ashurst spent the next week confirming the restoration of his leg, by exploration of the country within easy reach. Spring was a revelation to him this year. In a kind of intoxication he would watch the pink-white buds of some backward beech-tree sprayed up in the sunlight against the deep blue sky, or the trunks and limbs of the few Scotch firs, tawny in violent light, or again on the moor, the gale-bent larches which had such a look of life when the wind streamed in their young green, above the rusty black under-boughs. Or he would lie on the banks, gazing at the clusters of dog-violets, or up in the dead bracken, fingering the pink, transparent buds of the dew-berry, while the cuckoos called and yaffles laughed, or a lark, from very high, dripped its beads of song. It was certainly different from any spring he had ever known, for spring was within him, not without. In the daytime he hardly saw the family; and when Megan brought in his meals she always seemed too busy in the house or among the young things in the yard to stay talking long. But in the evenings he installed himself in the window seat in the kitchen, smoking and chatting with the lame man Jim, or Mrs. Narracombe, while the girl sewed, or moved about, clearing the supper things away. And sometimes with the sensation a cat must feel when it purrs, he would become conscious that Megan’s eyes—those dew-grey eyes—were fixed on him with a sort of lingering soft look which was strangely flattering. It was on Sunday week in the evening, when he was lying in the orchard listening to a blackbird and composing a love poem, that he heard the gate swing to, and saw the girl come running among the trees, with the red-cheeked, stolid Joe in swift pursuit. About twenty yards away the chase ended, and the two stood fronting each other, not noticing the stranger in the grass—the boy pressing on, the girl fending him off. Ashurst could see her face, angry, disturbed; and the youth’s—who would have thought that red-faced yokel could look so distraught! And painfully affected by that sight, he jumped up. They saw him then. Megan dropped her hands, and shrank behind a tree-trunk; the boy gave an angry grunt, rushed at the bank, scrambled over and vanished. Ashurst went slowly up to her. She was standing quite still, biting her lip—very

337TH E AP PLE-TRE E pretty, with her fine, dark hair blown loose about her face, and her eyes cast down. “I beg your pardon,” he said. She gave him one upward look, from eyes much dilated; then, catching her breath, turned away. Ashurst followed. “Megan!” But she went on; and taking hold of her arm, he turned her gently round to him. “Stop and speak to me.” “Why do you beg my pardon? It is not to me you should do that.” “Well, then, to Joe.” “How dare he come after me?” “In love with you, I suppose.” She stamped her foot. Ashurst uttered a short laugh. “Would you like me to punch his head?” She cried with sudden passion: “You laugh at me—you laugh at us!” He caught hold of her hands, but she shrank back, till her passionate little face and loose dark hair were caught among the pink clusters of the apple-blossom. Ashurst raised one of her imprisoned hands and put his lips to it. He felt how chivalrous he was, and superior to that clod Joe—just brushing that small, rough hand with his mouth! Her shrinking ceased suddenly; she seemed to tremble towards him. A sweet warmth overtook Ashurst from top to toe. This slim maiden, so simple and fine and pretty, was pleased, then, at the touch of his lips. And, yielding to a swift impulse, he put his arms round her, pressed her to him, and kissed her forehead. Then he was frightened—she went so pale, closing her eyes, so that the long, dark lashes lay on her pale cheeks; her hands, too, lay inert at her sides. The touch of her breast sent a shiver through him. “Megan!” he sighed out, and let her go. In the utter silence a blackbird shouted. Then the girl seized his hand, put it to her cheek, her heart, her lips, kissed it passionately, and fled away among the mossy trunks of the apple-trees, till they hid her from him. Ashurst sat down on a twisted old tree growing almost along the ground, and, all throbbing and bewildered, gazed vacantly at the blossom which had crowned her hair—those pink buds with one white open apple star. What had he done? How had he let himself be thus stampeded by beauty—or—just the spring! He felt curiously happy, all the same; happy and triumphant, with shivers running through his limbs, and a vague alarm. This was the beginning of—what? The midges bit him, the dancing gnats tried to fly into his mouth, and all the spring around him seemed to

338 John Galsworthy grow more lovely and alive; the songs of the cuckoos and the blackbirds, the laughter of the yaffles, the level-slanting sunlight, the apple-blossom which had crowned her head—! He got up from the old trunk and strode out of the orchard, wanting space, an open sky, to get on terms with these new sensations. He made for the moor, and from an ash-tree in the hedge a magpie flew out to herald him. Of man—at any age from five years on—who can say he has never been in love? Ashurst had loved his partners at his dancing class; loved his nursery governess; girls in school-holidays; perhaps never been quite out of love, cherishing always some more or less remote admiration. But this was different, not remote at all. Quite a new sensation; terribly delightful, bringing a sense of completed manhood. To be holding in his fingers such a wild flower, to be able to put it to his lips, and feel it tremble with delight against them! What intoxication, and— embarrassment! What to do with it—how meet her next time? His first caress had been cool, pitiful; but the next could not be, now that, by her burning little kiss on his hand, by her pressure of it to her heart, he knew that she loved him. Some natures are coarsened by love bestowed on them; others, like Ashurst’s, are swayed and drawn, warmed and softened, almost exalted, by what they feel to be a sort of miracle. And up there among the tors he was racked between the passionate desire to revel in this new sensation of spring fulfilled within him, and a vague but very real uneasiness. At one moment he gave himself up completely to his pride at having captured this pretty, trustful, dewy- eyed thing! At the next he thought with factitious solemnity: “Yes, my boy! But look out what you’re doing! You know what comes of it!” Dusk dropped down without his noticing—dusk on the carved, Assyrian-looking masses of the rocks. And the voice of Nature said: “This is a new world for you!” As when a man gets up at four o’clock and goes out into a summer morning, and beasts, birds, trees stare at him and he feels as if all had been made new. He stayed up there for hours, till it grew cold, then groped his way down the stones and heather roots to the road, back into the lane, and came again past the wild meadow to the orchard. There he struck a match and looked at his watch. Nearly twelve! It was black and unstirring in there now, very different from the lingering, bird-befriended brightness of six hours ago! And suddenly he saw this idyll of his with the eyes of the outer world—had mental vision of Mrs. Narracombe’s snakelike neck turned, her quick dark glance taking it all in, her shrewd face hardening; saw the gypsylike cousins coarsely mocking and distrustful; Joe

339TH E AP PLE-TRE E stolid and furious; only the lame man, Jim, with the suffering eyes, seemed tolerable to his mind. And the village pub!—the gossiping matrons he passed on his walks; and then—his own friends—Robert Garton’s smile when he went off that morning ten days ago; so ironical and knowing! Disgusting! For a minute he literally hated this earthly, cynical world to which one belonged, willy-nilly. The gate where he was leaning grew grey, a sort of shimmer passed before him and spread into the bluish darkness. The moon! He could just see it over the bank behind; red, nearly round—a strange moon! And turning away, he went up the lane which smelled of the night and cow-dung and young leaves. In the straw yard he could see the dark shapes of cattle, broken by the pale sickles of their horns, like so many thin moons, fallen ends-up. He unlatched the farm gate stealthily. All was dark in the house. Muffling his footsteps, he gained the porch, and, blotted against one of the yew- trees, looked up at Megan’s window. It was open. Was she sleeping, or lying awake perhaps disturbed—unhappy at his absence? An owl hooted while he stood there peering up, and the sound seemed to fill the whole night, so quiet was all else, save for the never-ending murmur of the stream running below the orchard. The cuckoos by day, and now the owls—how wonderful they voiced this troubled ecstasy within him! And suddenly he saw her at her window, looking out. He moved a little from the yew-tree, and whispered: “Megan!” She drew back, vanished, reappeared, leaning far down. He stole forward on the grass patch, hit his shin against the green-painted chair, and held his breath at the sound. The pale blur of her stretched-down arm and face did not stir; he moved the chair, and noiselessly mounted it. By stretching up his arm he could just reach. Her hand held the huge key of the front door, and he clasped that burning hand with the cold key in it. He could just see her face, the glint of teeth between her lips, her tumbled hair. She was still dressed— poor child, sitting up for him, no doubt! “Pretty Megan!” Her hot, roughened fingers clung to his; her face had a strange, lost look. To have been able to reach it—even with his hand! The owl hooted, a scent of sweet-brier crept into his nostrils. Then one of the farm dogs barked; her grasp relaxed, she shrank back. “Good night, Megan!” “Good night, Sir!” She was gone! With a sigh he dropped back to earth, and, sitting on that chair, took off his boots. Nothing for it but to creep in and go to bed; yet for a long while he sat unmoving, his feet chilly in the dew, drunk on the memory of her lost, half-smiling face, and the clinging grip of her burning fingers, pressing the cold key into his hand.

340 John Galsworthy He awoke feeling as if he had eaten heavily overnight, instead of having eaten nothing. And far off, unreal, seemed yesterday’s romance! Yet it was a golden morning. Full spring had burst at last—in one night the “goldie-cups,” as the little boys called them, seemed to have made the field their own, and from his window he could see apple-blossoms covering the orchard as with a rose and white quilt. He went down almost dreading to see Megan; and yet when not she but Mrs. Narracombe brought in his breakfast he felt vexed and disappointed. The woman’s quick eye and snaky neck seemed to have a new alacrity this morning. Had she noticed? “So you an’ the moon went walkin’ last night, Mr. Ashurst! Did ye have your supper anywheres?” Ashurst shook his head. “We kept it for you, but I suppose you was too busy in your brain to think o’ such a thing as that?” Was she mocking him, in that voice of hers, which still kept some Welsh crispness against the invading burr of the West Country? If she knew! And at that moment he thought: “No, no; I’ll clear out. I won’t put myself in such a beastly false position.” But, after breakfast, the longing to see Megan began and increased with every minute, together with fear lest something should have been said to her which had spoiled everything. Sinister that she had not appeared, not given him even a glimpse of her! And the love poem, whose manufacture had been so important and absorbing yesterday afternoon under the apple-trees, now seemed so paltry that he tore it up and rolled it into pipe spills. What had he known of love till she seized his hand and kissed it! And now—what did he not know? But to write of it seemed mere insipidity! He went up to his bedroom to get a book, and his heart began to beat violently, for she was in there making the bed. He stood in the doorway watching; and suddenly, with turbulent joy, he saw her stoop and kiss his pillow, just at the hollow made by his head last night. How let her know he had seen that pretty act of devotion? And yet if she heard him stealing away, it would be even worse. She took the pillow up, holding it as if reluctant to shake out the impress of his cheek, dropped it, and turned round. “Megan!” She put her hands up to her cheeks, but her eyes seemed to look right into him. He had never before realized the depth and purity and touching faithfulness in those dew-bright eyes, and he stammered: “It was sweet of you to wait up for me last night.”

341TH E AP PLE-TRE E She still said nothing, and he stammered on: “I was wandering about on the moor; it was such a jolly night. I—I’ve just come up for a book.” Then, the kiss he had seen her give the pillow afflicted him with sudden headiness, and he went up to her. Touching her eyes with his lips, he thought with queer excitement: “I’ve done it! Yesterday all was sudden—anyhow; but now—I’ve done it!” The girl let her forehead rest against his lips, which moved downwards till they reached hers. That first real lover’s kiss—strange, wonderful, still almost innocent—in which heart did it make the most disturbance? “Come to the big apple-tree to-night, after they’ve gone to bed. Megan—promise!” She whispered back: “I promise!” Then, scared at her white face, scared at everything, he let her go, and went downstairs again. Yes! he had done it now! Accepted her love, declared his own! He went out to the green chair as devoid of a book as ever; and there he sat staring vacantly before him, triumphant and remorseful, while under his nose and behind his back the work of the farm went on. How long he had been sitting in that curious state of vacancy he had no notion when he saw Joe standing a little behind him to the right. The youth had evidently come from hard work in the fields, and stood shifting his feet, breathing loudly, his face coloured like a setting sun, and his arms, below the rolled-up sleeves of his blue shirt, showing the hue and furry sheen of ripe peaches. His red lips were open, his blue eyes with their flaxen lashes stared fixedly at Ashurst, who said ironically: “Well, Joe, anything I can do for you?” “Yeas.” “What, then?” “Yu can goo away from yere. Us don’ want yu.” Ashurst’s face, never too humble, assumed its most lordly look. “Very good of you, but, do you know, I prefer the others should speak for themselves.” The youth moved a pace or two nearer, and the scent of his honest heat afflicted Ashurst’s nostrils. “What d’yu stay yere for?” “Because it pleases me.” “ ’Twon’t please yu when I’ve bashed yure head in!” “Indeed! When would you like to begin that?” Joe answered only with the loudness of his breathing, but his eyes looked like those of a young and angry bull. Then a sort of spasm seemed to convulse his face.

342 John Galsworthy “Megan don’ want yu.” A rush of jealousy, of contempt, and anger with this thick, loud- breathing rustic got the better of Ashurst’s self-possession; he jumped up and pushed back his chair. “You can go to the devil!” And as he said those simple words, he saw Megan in the doorway with a tiny brown spaniel puppy in her arms. She came up to him quickly: “It’s eyes are blue!” she said. Joe turned away; the back of his neck was literally crimson. Ashurst put his finger to the mouth of the little brown bull-frog of a creature in her arms. How cozy it looked against her! “It’s fond of you already. Ah! Megan, everything is fond of you.” “What was Joe saying to you, please?” “Telling me to go away, because you didn’t want me here.” She stamped her foot; then looked up at Ashurst. At that adoring look he felt his nerves quiver, just as if he had seen a moth scorching its wings. “To-night!” he said. “Don’t forget!” “No.” And smothering her face against the puppy’s little fat, brown body, she slipped back into the house. Ashurst wandered down the lane. At the gate of the wild meadow he came on the lame man and his cows. “Beautiful day, Jim!” “Ah! ’Tes brave weather for the grass. The ashes be later than th’ oaks this year. ‘When th’ oak before th’ ash—’ ” Ashurst said idly: “Where were you standing when you saw the gypsy bogle, Jim?” “It might be under that big apple-tree, as you might say.” “And you really do think it was there?” The lame man answered cautiously: “I shouldn’t like to say rightly that ’twas there. ’Twas in my mind as ’twas there.” “What do you make of it?” The lame man lowered his voice. “They du zay old master, Mist’ Narracombe, come o’ gypsy stock. But that’s tellin’. They’m a wonderful people, yu know, for claimin’ their own. Maybe they knu ’e was goin’, and sent this feller along for company. That’s what I’ve a-thought about it.” “What was he like?” “ ’E ’ad ’air all over ’is face, an’ goin’ like this, he was, zame as if ’e ’ad a viddle. They zay there’s no such thing as bogles, but I’ve a-zeen the ’air on this dog standin’ up of a dark naight, when I couldn’ zee nothin’, meself.”

343TH E AP PLE-TRE E “Was there a moon?” “Yeas, very near full, but ’twas on’y just risen, goldlike be’ind them trees.” “And you think a ghost means trouble, do you?” The lame man pushed his hat up; his aspiring eyes looked at Ashurst more earnestly than ever. “ ’Tes not for me to zay that—but ’tes they bein’ so unrestin’-like. There’s things us don’ understand, that’s zartin, for zure. There’s people that zee things, tu, an’ others that don’t never zee nothin’. Now, our Joe—yu might putt anything under ’is eyes an’ ’e’d never see it; and them other boys, tu, they’m rattlin’ fellers. But yu take an’ putt our Megan where there’s suthin’, she’ll zee it, an’ more tu, or I’m mistaken.” “She’s sensitive, that’s why.” “What’s that?” “I mean, she feels everything.” “Ah! She’m very lovin’-’earted.” Ashu rst, who felt colour coming into his cheeks, held out his tobacco- pouch. “Have a fill, Jim?” “Thank ’ee, Sir. She’m one in an ’underd, I think.” “I expect so,” said Ashurst shortly, and folding up his pouch, walked on. “Lovin’-’earted!” Yes! And what was he doing? What were his intentions—as they say—towards this loving-hearted girl? The thought dogged him, wandering through fields bright with buttercups, where the little red calves were feeding, and the swallows flying high. Yes, the oaks were before the ashes, brown-gold already; every tree in different stage and hue. The cuckoos and a thousand birds were singing; the little streams were very bright. The ancients believed in a golden age, in the garden of the Hesperides! . . . A queen wasp settled on his sleeve. Each queen wasp killed meant two thousand fewer wasps to thieve the apples which would grow from that blossom in the orchard; but who, with love in his heart, could kill anything on a day like this? He entered a fleld where a young red bull was feeding. It seemed to Ashurst that he looked like Joe. But the young bull took no notice of this visitor, a little drunk himself, perhaps, on the singing and the glamour of the golden pasture, under his short legs. Ashurst crossed out unchallenged to the hillside above the stream. From that slope a tor mounted to its crown of rocks. The ground there was covered with a mist of blue bells, and nearly a score of crab-apple trees were in full bloom. He threw himself down on the grass. The change from the buttercup glory and oak-goldened glamour of the fields to this ethereal beauty under the grey tor filled him with

344 John Galsworthy a sort of wonder; nothing the same, save the sound of running water and the songs of the cuckoos. He lay there a long time, watching the sunlight wheel till the crab-trees threw shadows over the blue bells, his only companions a few wild bees. He was not quite sane, thinking of that morning’s kiss, and of to-night under the apple-tree. In such a spot as this, fauns and dryads surely lived; nymphs, white as the crab-apple blossom, retired within those trees; fauns, brown as the dead bracken, with pointed ears, lay in wait for them. The cuckoos were still calling when he woke, there was the sound of running water; but the sun had couched behind the tor, the hill-side was cool, and some rabbits had come out. “To-night!” he thought. Just as from the earth everything was pushing up, unfolding under the soft insistent fingers of an unseen hand, so were his heart and senses being pushed, unfolded. He got up and broke off a spray from a crab-apple tree. The buds were like Megan—shell-like, rose-pink, wild, and fresh; and so, too, the opening flowers, white, and wild, and touching. He put the spray into his coat. And all the rush of the spring within him escaped in a triumphant sigh. But the rabbits scurried away. It was nearly eleven that night when Ashurst put down the pocket “Odyssey” which for half an hour he had held in his hands without reading, and slipped through the yard down to the orchard. The moon had just risen, very golden, over the hill, and like a bright, powerful, watching spirit peered through the bars of an ash-tree’s half-naked boughs. In among the apple-trees it was still dark, and he stood making sure of his direction, feeling the rough grass with his feet. A black mass close behind him stirred with a heavy grunting sound, and three large pigs settled down again close to each other, under the wall. He listened. There was no wind, but the stream’s burbling whispering chuckle had gained twice its daytime strength. One bird, he could not tell what, cried “Pip—pip,” “Pip—pip,” with perfect monotony; he could hear a nightjar spinning very far off; an owl hooting. Ashurst moved a step or two, and again halted, aware of a dim living whiteness all round his head. On the dark unstirring trees innumerable flowers and buds all soft and blurred were being bewitched to life by the creeping moonlight. He had the oddest feeling of actual companionship, as if a million white moths or spirits had floated in and settled between dark sky and darker ground, and were opening and shutting their wings on a level with his eyes. In the bewildering, still, scentless beauty of that moment he almost lost memory of why he had come to the orchard. The flying glamour which had clothed the earth all day had not gone now that night had fallen, but only changed

345TH E AP PLE-TRE E into this new form. He moved on through the thicket of stems and boughs covered with that live powdering whiteness, till he reached the big apple- tree. No mistaking that, even in the dark, nearly twice the height and size of any other, and leaning out towards the open meadows and the stream. Under the thick branches he stood still again, to listen. The same sounds exactly, and a faint grunting from the sleepy pigs. He put his hands on the dry, almost warm tree trunk, whose rough mossy surface gave forth a peaty scent at his touch. Would she come—would she? And among these quivering, haunted, moon-witched trees he was seized with doubts of everything! All was unearthly here, fit for no earthly lovers; fit only for god and goddess, faun and nymph—not for him and this little country girl. Would it not be almost a relief if she did not come? But all the time he was listening. And still that unknown bird went “Pip—pip,” “Pip—pip,” and there rose the busy chatter of the little trout stream, whereon the moon was flinging glances through the bars of her tree-prison. The blossom on a level with his eyes seemed to grow more living every moment, seemed with its mysterious white beauty more and more a part of his suspense. He plucked a fragment and held it close—three blossoms. Sacrilege to pluck fruit-tree blossom—soft, sacred, young blossom—and throw it away! Then suddenly he heard the gate close, the pigs stirring again and grunting; and leaning against the trunk, he pressed his hands to its mossy sides behind him, and held his breath. She might have been a spirit threading the trees, for all the noise she made! Then he saw her quite close—her dark form part of a little tree, her white face part of its blossom; so still, and peering towards him. He whispered: “Megan!” and held out his hands. She ran forward, straight to his breast. When he felt her heart beating against him, Ashurst knew to the full the sensations of chivalry and passion. Because she was not of his world, because she was so simple and young and headlong, adoring and defenceless, how could he be other than her protector in the dark! Because she was all simple Nature and beauty, as much a part of this spring night as was the living blossom, how should he not take all that she would give him— how not fulfill the spring in her heart and his! And torn between these two emotions he clasped her close, and kissed her hair. How long they stood there without speaking he knew not. The stream went on chattering, the owls hooting, the moon kept stealing up and growing whiter; the blossom all round them and above brightened in suspense of living beauty. Their lips had sought each other’s, and they did not speak. The moment speech began all would be unreal! Spring has no speech, nothing but rustling and whispering. Spring has so much more than

346 John Galsworthy speech in its unfolding flowers and leaves, and the coursing of its streams, and in its sweet restless seeking! And sometimes spring will come alive, and, like a mysterious Presence, stand, encircling lovers with its arms, laying on them the fingers of enchantment, so that, standing lips to lips, they forget everything but just a kiss. While her heart beat against him, and her lips quivered on his, Ashurst felt nothing but simple rapture—Destiny meant her for his arms, Love could not be flouted! But when their lips parted for breath, division began again at once. Only, passion now was so much the stronger, and he sighed: “Oh! Megan! Why did you come?” She looked up, hurt, amazed. “Sir, you asked me to.” “Don’t call me ‘Sir,’ my pretty sweet.” “What should I be callin’ you.” “Frank.” “I could not. Oh, no!” “But you love me—don’t you?” “I could not help lovin’ you. I want to be with you—that’s all.” “All!” So faint that he hardly heard, she whispered: “I shall die if I can’t be with you.” Ashurst took a mighty breath. “Come and be with me, then!” “Oh!” Intoxicated by the awe and rapture in that “Oh!” he went on, whispering: “Well go to London. I’ll show you the world. And I will take care of you, I promise, Megan. I’ll never be a brute to you!” “If I can be with you—that is all.” He stroked her hair, and whispered on: “To-morrow I’ll go to Torquay and get some money, and get you some clothes that won’t be noticed, and then well steal away. And when we get to London, soon perhaps, if you love me well enough, we’ll be married.” He could feel her hair shiver with the shake of her head. “Oh, no! I could not. I only want to be with you!” Drunk on his own chivalry, Ashurst went on murmuring: “It’s I who am not good enough for you. Oh! Megan, when did you begin to love me?” “When I saw you in the road, and you looked at me. The first night I loved you; but I never thought you would want me.” She slipped down suddenly to her knees, trying to kiss his feet. A shiver of horror went through Ashurst; he lifted her up bodily and held her fast—too upset to speak.

347TH E AP PLE-TRE E She whispered: “Why won’t you let me?” “It’s I who will kiss your feet!” Her smile brought tears into his eyes. The whiteness of her moonlit face so close to his, the faint pink of her opened lips, had the living, unearthly beauty of the apple-blossom. And then, suddenly, her eyes widened and stared past him painfully; she writhed out of his arms, and whispered: “Look!” Ashurst saw nothing but the brightened stream, the furze faintly gilded, the beech-trees glistening, and behind them all the wide loom of the moonlit hill. Behind him came her frozen whisper: “The gypsy bogle!” “Where?” “There—by the stone—under the trees!” Exasperated, he leapt the stream, and strode towards the beech clump. Prank of the moonlight! Nothing! In and out of the boulders and thorntrees, muttering and cursing, yet with a kind of terror, he rushed and stumbled. Absurd! Silly! Then he went back to the apple-tree. But she was gone; he could hear a rustle, the grunting of the pigs, the sound of a gate closing. Instead of her, only this old apple-tree! He flung his arms round the trunk. What a substitute for her soft body; the rough moss against his face—what a substitute for her soft cheek; only the scent, as of the woods, a little the same! And above him, and around, the blossoms, more living, more moonlit than ever, seemed to glow and breathe. Descending from the train at Torquay station, Ashurst wandered uncertainly along the front, for he did not know this particular queen of English watering-places. Having little sense of what he had on, he was quite unconscious of being remarkable among its inhabitants, and strode along in his rough Norfolk jacket, dusty boots, and battered hat, without observing that people gazed at him rather blankly. He was seeking a branch of his London bank, and having found one, found also the first obstacle to his mood. Did he know any one in Torquay? No. In that case, if he would wire to his bank in London, they would be happy to oblige him on receipt of the reply. That suspicious breath from the matter- of-fact world somewhat tarnished the brightness of his visions. But he sent the telegram. Nearly opposite to the post office he saw a shop full of ladies’ garments, and examined the window with strange sensations. To have to undertake the clothing of his rustic love was more than a little disturbing. He went in. A young woman came forward; she had blue eyes and a faintly puzzled forehead. Ashurst stared at her in silence.

348 John Galsworthy “Yes, Sir?” “I want a dress for a young lady.” The young woman smiled. Ashurst frowned—the peculiarity of his request struck him with sudden force. The young woman added hastily: “What style would you like— something modish?” “No. Simple.” “What figure would the young lady be?” “I don’t know; about two inches shorter than you, I should say.” “Could you give me her waist measurement?” Megan’s waist! “Oh! anything usual!” “Quite!” While she was gone he stood disconsolately eyeing the models in the window, and suddenly it seemed to him incredible that Megan—his Megan—could ever be dressed save in the rough tweed skirt, coarse blouse, and Tam o’ Shanter cap he was wont to see her in. The young woman had come back with several dresses in her arms, and Ashurst eyed her laying them against her own modish figure. There was one whose colour he liked, a dove-grey, but to imagine Megan clothed in it was beyond him. The young woman went away, and brought some more. But on Ashurst there had now come a feeling of paralysis. How choose? She would want a hat too, and shoes, and gloves; and, suppose, when he had got them all, they commonized her, as Sunday clothes always commonized village folk! Why should she not travel as she was? Ah? But conspicuousness would matter; this was a serious elopement. And, staring at the young woman, he thought: “I wonder if she guesses, and thinks me a blackguard?” “Do you mind putting aside that grey one for me?” he said desperately at last. “I can’t decide now; I’ll come in again this afternoon.” The young woman sighed. “Oh! certainly. It’s a very tasteful costume. I don’t think you’ll get anything that will suit your purpose better.” “I expect not,” Ashurst murmured, and went out. Freed again from the suspicious matter of factness of the world, he took a long breath, and went back to visions. In fancy he saw the trustful, pretty creature who was going to join her life to his; saw himself and her stealing forth at night, walking over the moor under the moon, he with his arm around her, and carrying her new garments, till, in some far-off wood, when dawn was coming, she would slip off her old things and put

349TH E AP PLE-TRE E on these, and an early train at a distant station would bear them away on their honeymoon journey, till London swallowed them up, and the dreams of love came true. “Frank Ashurst! Haven’t seen you since Rugby, old chap!” Ashurst’s frown dissolved; the face, close to his own, was blue-eyed, suffused with sun—one of those faces where sun from within and without join in a sort of lustre. And he answered: “Phil Halliday, by Jove!” “What are you doing here?” “Oh! nothing. Just looking round, and getting some money. I’m staying on the moor.” “Are you lunching anywhere? Come and lunch with us; I’m here with my young sisters. They’ve had measles.” Hooked in by that friendly arm Ashurst went along, up a hill, down a hill, away out of the town, while the voice of Halliday, redolent of optimism as his face was of sun, explained how “in this mouldy place the only decent things were the bathing and boating,” and so on, till presently they came to a crescent of houses a little above and back from the sea, and into the centre one—a hotel—made their way. “Come up to my room and have a wash. Lunch’ll be ready in a jiffy.” Ashurst contemplated his visage in a looking-glass. After his farmhouse bedroom, the comb and one spare shirt régime of the last forenight, this room littered with clothes and brushes was a sort of Capua; and he thought: “Queer—one doesn’t realize—” But what—he did not quite know. When he followed Halliday into the sitting-room for lunch, three faces, very fair and blue-eyed, were turned suddenly at the words: “This is Frank Ashurst—my young sisters.” Two were indeed young, about eleven and ten. The third was perhaps seventeen, tall and fair-haired too, with pink-and-white cheeks just touched by the sun, and eyebrows, rather darker than the hair, running a little upwards from her nose to their outer points. The voices of all three were like Halliday’s, high and cheerful; they stood up straight, shook hands with a quick movement, looked at Ashurst critically, away again at once, and began to talk of what they were going to do in the afternoon. A regular Diana and attendant nymphs! After the farm this crisp, slangy, eager talk, this cool, clean, off-hand refinement, was queer at first, and then so natural that what he had come from became suddenly remote. The names of the two little ones seemed to be Sabina and Freda; of the eldest, Stella.

350 John Galsworthy Presently the one called Sabina turned to him and said: “I say, will you come shrimping with us?—it’s awful fun!” Surprised by this unexpected friendliness, Ashurst murmured: “I’m afraid I’ve got to get back this afternoon.” “Oh!” “Can’t you put it off?” Ashurst turned to the new speaker, Stella, shook his head, and smiled. She was very pretty! Sabina said regretfully: “You might!” Then the talk switched off to caves and swimming. “Can you swim far?” “About two miles.” “Oh!” “I say!” “How jolly!” The three pairs of blue eyes, fixed on him, made him conscious of his new importance. The sensation was agreeable. Halliday said: “I say, you simply must stop and have a bathe. You’d better stay the night.” “Yes, do!” But again Ashurst smiled and shook his head. Then suddenly he found himself being catechized about his physical achievements. He had rowed—it seemed—in his college boat, played in his college football team, won his college mile, and he rose from table a sort of hero. The two little girls insisted that he must see “their” cave, and they set forth chattering like magpies, Ashurst between them, Stella and her brother a little behind. In the cave, damp and darkish like any other cave, the great feature was a pool with possibility of creatures which might be caught and put into bottles. Sabina and Freda who wore no stockings on their shapely brown legs, exhorted Ashurst to join them in the middle of it, and help sieve the water. He too was soon bootless and sockless. Time goes fast for one who has a sense of beauty, when there are pretty children in a pool and a young Diana on the edge to receive with wonder anything you can catch! Ashurst never had much sense of time. It was a shock when, pulling out his watch, he saw it was well past three. No cashing his check to-day—the bank would be closed before he could get there. Watching his expression, the little girls cried out at once: “Hurrah! Now you’ll have to stay!” Ashurst did not answer. He was seeing again Megan’s face, when at breakfast he had whispered: “I’m going to Torquay, darling, to get everything; I shall be back this evening. If it’s fine we can go to-night. Be ready.” He was seeing again how she quivered and hung on his words.

351TH E AP PLE-TRE E What would she think? Then he pulled himself together, conscious suddenly of the calm scrutiny of this other young girl, so tall and fair and Diana-like, at the edge of the pool, of her wondering blue eyes under those brows which slanted up a little. If they knew what was in his mind— if they knew that this very night he had meant—! Well, there would be a little sound of disgust, and he would be alone in the cave. And with a curious mixture of anger, chagrin, and shame, he put his watch back into his pocket and said abruptly: “Yes; I’m dished for to-day.” “Hurrah! Now you can bathe with us.” It was impossible not to succumb a little to the contentment of these pretty children, to the smile on Stella’s lips, to Halliday’s “Ripping, old chap! I can lend you things for the night!” But again a spasm of longing and remorse throbbed through Ashurst, and he said moodily: “I must send a wire!” The attractions of the pool palling, they went back to the hotel. Ashurst sent his wire, addressing it to Mrs. Narracombe: “Sorry, detained for the night, back tomorrow.” Surely Megan would understand that he had too much to do; and his heart grew lighter. It was a lovely afternoon, warm, the sea calm and blue, and swimming his great passion; the favor of these pretty children flattered him, the pleasure of looking at them, at Stella, at Halliday’s sunny face; the slight unreality, yet extreme naturalness of it all—as of a last peep at normality before he took this plunge with Megan! He got his borrowed bathing dress, and they all set forth. Halliday and he undressed behind one rock, the three girls behind another. He was first into the sea, and at once swam out with the bravado of justifying his self- given reputation. When he turned he could see Halliday swimming along shore, and the girls flopping and dipping, and riding the little waves, in the way he was accustomed to despise, but now thought pretty and sensible, since it gave him the distinction of the only deep-water fish. But drawing near, he wondered if they would like him, a stranger, to come into their splashing group; he felt shy, approaching that slim nymph. Then Sabina summoned him to teach her to float, and between them the little girls kept him so busy that he had no time even to notice whether Stella was accustomed to his presence, till suddenly he heard a startled sound from her. She was standing submerged to the waist, leaning a little forward, her slim white arms stretched out and pointing, her wet face puckered by the sun and an expression of fear. “Look at Phil! Is he all right? Oh, look!” Ashurst saw at once that Phil was not all right. He was splashing and struggling out of his depth, perhaps a hundred yards away; suddenly he

352 John Galsworthy gave a cry, threw up his arms, and went down. Ashurst saw the girl launch herself towards him, and crying out: “Go back, Stella! Go back!” he dashed out. He had never swum so fast, and reached Halliday just as he was coming up a second time. It was a case of cramp, but to get him in was not difficult, for he did not struggle. The girl, who had stopped where Ashurst told her to, helped as soon as he was in his depth, and once on the beach they sat down one on each side of him to rub his limbs, while the little ones stood by with scared faces. Halliday was soon smiling. It was—he said—rotten of him, absolutely rotten! If Frank would give him an arm, he could get to his clothes all right now. Ashurst gave him the arm, and as he did so caught sight of Stella’s face, wet and flushed and tearful, all broken up out of its calm; and he thought: “I called her Stella! Wonder if she minded?” While they were dressing, Halliday said quietly: “You saved my life, old chap!” “Rot!” Clothed, but not quite in their right minds, they went up all together to the hotel and sat down to tea, except Halliday, who was lying down in his room. After some slices of bread and jam, Sabina said: “I say, you know, you are a brick!” And Freda chimed in: “Rather!” Ashurst saw Stella looking down; he got up in confusion, and went to the window. From there he heard Sabina mutter: “I say, let’s swear blood bond. Where’s your knife, Freda?” and out of the corner of his eye he could see each of them solemnly prick herself, squeeze out a drop of blood and dabble on a bit of paper. He turned and made for the door. “Don’t be a stoat! Come back!” His arms were seized; imprisoned between the little girls he was brought back to the table. On it lay a piece of paper with an effigy drawn in blood, and the three names Stella Halliday, Sabina Halliday, Freda Halliday—also in blood, running towards it like the rays of a star. Sabina said: “That’s you. We shall have to kiss you, you know.” And Freda echoed: “Oh! Blow—Yes!” Before Ashurst could escape, some wettish hair dangled against his face, something like a bite descended on his nose, he felt his left arm pinched, and other teeth softly searching his cheek. Then he was released, and Freda said: “Now, Stella.” Ashurst, red and rigid, looked across the table at a red and rigid Stella. Sabina giggled; Freda cried: “Buck up—it spoils everything!” A queer, ashamed eagerness shot through Ashurst; then he said quietly: “Shut up, you little demons!”

353TH E AP PLE-TRE E Again Sabina giggled. “Well, then, she can kiss her hand, and you can put it against your nose. It is on one side!” To his amazement the girl did kiss her hand and stretch it out. Solemnly he took that cool, slim hand and laid it to his cheek. The two little girls broke into clapping, and Freda said: “Now, then, we shall have to save your life at any time; that’s settled. Can I have another cup, Stella, not so beastly weak?” Tea was resumed, and Ashurst, folding up the paper, put it in his pocket. The talk turned on the advantages of measles, tangerine oranges, honey in a spoon, no lessons, and so forth. Ashurst listened, silent, exchanging friendly looks with Stella, whose face was again of its normal sun-touched pink and white. It was soothing to be so taken to the heart of this jolly family, fascinating to watch their faces. And after tea, while the two little girls pressed seaweed, he talked to Stella in the window- seat and looked at her water-colour sketches. The whole thing was like a pleasurable dream; time and incident hung up, importance and reality suspended. To-morrow he would go back to Megan, with nothing of all this left save the paper with the blood of these children, in his pocket. Children! Stella was not quite that—as old as Megan! Her talk—quick, rather hard and shy, yet friendly—seemed to flourish on his silences, and about her there was something cool and virginal—a maiden in a bower. At dinner, to which Halliday, who had swallowed too much sea- water, did not come, Sabina said: “I’m going to call you Frank.” Freda echoed: “Frank, Frank, Franky.” Ashurst grinned and bowed. “Every time Stella calls you Mr. Ashurst, she’s got to pay a forfeit. It’s ridiculous.” Ashurst looked at Stella, who grew slowly red. Sabina giggled; Freda cried: “She’s ‘smoking’—‘smoking!’—Yah!” Ashurst reached out to right and left, and grasped some fair hair in each hand. “Look here,” he said, “you two! Leave Stella alone, or I’ll tie you together!” Freda gurgled: “Ouch! You are a beast!” Sabina murmured cautiously: “You call her Stella, you see!” “Why shouldn’t I? It’s a jolly name!” “All right; we give you leave to!” Ashurst released the hair. Stella! What would she call him—after this? But she called him nothing; till at bedtime he said, deliberately: “Good night, Stella!”

354 John Galsworthy “Good night, Mr.—Good night, Frank! It was jolly of you, you know!” “Oh—that! Bosh!” Her quick, straight handshake tightened suddenly, and as suddenly, became slack. Ashurst stood motionless in the empty sitting-room. Only last night, under the apple-tree and the living blossoms, he had held Megan to him, kissing her eyes and lips. And he gasped, swept by that rush of remembrance. To-night it should have begun—his life with her who only wanted to be with him! And now, twenty-four hours and more must pass, because—of not looking at his watch! Why had he made friends with this family of innocents just when he was saying good-bye to innocence, and all the rest of it? “But I mean to marry her,” he thought; “I told her so!” He took a candle, lighted it, and went to his bedroom, which was next to Halliday’s. His friend’s voice called as he was passing: “Is that you, old chap? I say, come in.” He was sitting up in bed, smoking a pipe and reading. “Sit down a bit.” Ashurst sat down by the open window. “I’ve been thinking about this afternoon, you know,” said Halliday rather suddenly. “They say you go through all your past. I didn’t. I suppose I wasn’t far enough gone.” “What did you think of?” Halliday was silent for a little, then said quietly: “Well, I did think of one thing—rather odd—of a girl at Cambridge that I might have—you know; I was glad I hadn’t got her on my mind. Anyhow, old chap, I owe it to you that I’m here; I should have been in the big dark by now. No more bed, or baccy; no more anything. I say, what d’you suppose happens to us?” Ashurst murmured: “Go out like flames, I expect.” “Phew!” “We may flicker, and cling about a bit, perhaps.” “H’m! I think that’s rather gloomy. I say, I hope my young sisters have been decent to you?” “Awfully decent.” Halliday put his pipe down, crossed his hands behind his neck, and turned his face towards the window. “They’re not bad kids!” he said. Watching his friend, lying there, with that smile, and the candlelight on his face, Ashurst shuddered. Quite true! He might have been lying there with no smile, with all that sunny look gone out forever! He might not

355TH E AP PLE-TRE E have been lying there at all, but “sanded” at the bottom of the sea, waiting for resurrection on the—ninth day, was it? And that smile of Halliday’s seemed to him suddenly something wonderful, as if in it were all the difference between life and death—the little flame—the all! He got up, and said softly: “Well, you ought to sleep, I expect. Shall I blow out?” Halliday caught his hand. “I can’t say it, you know; but it must be rotten to be dead. Good night, old boy!” Stirred and moved, Ashurst squeezed the hand, and went downstairs. The hall-door was still open, and he passed out on to the lawn before the Crescent. The stars were bright in a very dark blue sky, and by their light some lilacs had that mysterious colour of flowers by night which no one can describe. Ashurst pressed his face against a spray; and before his closed eyes Megan started up, with the tiny brown spaniel pup against her breast. “I thought of a girl that I might have—you know. I was glad I hadn’t got her on my mind!” He jerked his head away from the lilac, and began pacing up and down over the grass, a grey phantom coming to substance for a moment in the light from the lamp at either end. He was with her again under the living, breathing whiteness of the blossom, the stream chattering by, the moon glinting steel-blue on the bathing-pool; back in the rapture of his kisses on her upturned face of innocence and humble passion, back in the suspense and beauty of that pagan night. He stood still once more in the shadow of the lilacs. Here the sea, not the stream, was Night’s voice; the sea with its sigh and rustle; no little bird, no owl, no nightjar called or spun; but a piano tinkled, and the white houses cut the sky with solid curve, and the scent from the lilacs filled the air. A window of the hotel, high up, was lighted; he saw a shadow move across the blind. And most queer sensations stirred within him, a sort of churning, and twining, and turning of a single emotion on itself, as though spring and love, bewildered and confused, seeking the way, were baffled. This girl, who had called him Frank, whose hand had given his that sudden little clutch, this girl so cool and pure—what would she think of such wild, unlawful loving? He sank down on the grass, sitting there cross- legged, with his back to the house, motionless as some carved Buddha. Was he really going to break through innocence, and steal? Sniff the scent out of a wild flower, and—perhaps—throw it away? “Of a girl at Cambridge that I might have—you know!” He put his hands to the grass, one on each side, palms downwards, and pressed; it was just warm still— the grass, barely moist, soft and firm and friendly. “What am I going to do?” he thought. Perhaps Megan was at her window, looking out at the blos-

356 John Galsworthy som, thinking of him! Poor little Megan! “Why not?” he thought. “I love her! But do I—really love her? or do I only want her because she is so pretty, and loves me? What am I going to do?” The piano tinkled on, the stars winked; and Ashurst gazed out before him at the dark sea, as if spellbound. He got up at last, cramped and rather chilly. There was no longer light in any window. And he went in to bed. Out of a deep and dreamless sleep he was awakened by the sound of thumping on the door. A shrill voice called: “Hi! Breakfast’s ready.” He jumped up. Where was he—? Ah! He found them already eating marmalade, and sat down in the empty place between Stella and Sabina, who, after watching him a little, said: “I say, do buck up; we’re going to start at half past nine.” “We’re going to Berry Head, old chap; you must come!” Ashurst thought: “Come! Impossible. I shall be getting things and going back.” He looked at Stella. She said quickly: “Do come!” Sabina chimed in: “It’ll be no fun without you.” Freda got up and stood behind his chair. “You’ve got to come, or else I’ll pull your hair!” Ashurst thought: “Well—one day more—to think it over! One day more!” And he said: “All right! You needn’t tweak my mane!” “Hurrah!” At the station he wrote a second telegram to the farm and then—tore it up; he could not have explained why. From Brixham they drove in a very little wagonette. There, squeezed between Sabina and Freda, with his knees touching Stella’s, they played “Up Jenkins”; and the gloom he was feeling gave way to frolic. In this one day more to think it over, he did not want to think! They ran races, wrestled, paddled—for to-day nobody wanted to bathe—they sang catches, played games, and ate all they had brought. The little girls fell asleep against him on the way back, and his knees still touched Stella’s in the wagonette. It seemed incredible that thirty hours ago he had never set eyes on any of those three flaxen heads. In the train he talked to Stella of poetry, discovering her favourites, and telling her his own with a pleasing sense of superiority; till suddenly she said, rather low: “Phil says you don’t believe in a future life, Frank. I think that’s dreadful.” Disconcerted, Ashurst muttered: “I don’t either believe or not believe— I simply don’t know.” She said quickly: “I couldn’t bear that. What would be the use of living?”

357TH E AP PLE-TRE E Watching the frown of those pretty oblique brows, Ashurst answered: “I don’t believe in believing things because one wants to.” “But why should one wish to live again, if one isn’t going to?” And she looked full at him. He did not want to hurt her, but an itch to dominate pushed him on to say: “While one’s alive one naturally wants to go on living forever; that’s part of being alive. But it probably isn’t anything more.” “Don’t you believe in the Bible at all, then?” Ashurst thought: “Now I shall really hurt her!” “I believe in the Sermon on the Mount, because it’s beautiful and good for all time.” “But don’t you believe Christ was divine?” He shook his head. She turned her face quickly to the window, and there sprang into his mind Megan’s prayer, repeated by little Nick: “God bless us all, and Mr. Ashes!” Who else would ever say a prayer for him, like her who at this moment must be waiting—waiting to see him come down the lane? And he thought suddenly: “What a scoundrel I am!” All that evening this thought kept coming back; but, as is not unusual, each time with less poignancy, till it seemed almost a matter of course to be a scoundrel. And—strange!—he did not know whether he was a scoundrel if he meant to go back to Megan, or if he did not mean to go back to her. They played cards till the children were sent off to bed; then Stella went to the piano. From over on the window seat, where it was nearly dark, Ashurst watched her between the candles—that fair head on the long, white neck bending to the movement of her hands. She played fluently, without much expression; but what a picture she made, the faint golden radiance, a sort of angelic atmosphere—hovering about her! Who could have passionate thoughts or wild desires in the presence of that swaying, white-clothed girl with the seraphic head? She played a thing of Schumann’s called “Warum?” Then Halliday brought out a flute, and the spell was broken. After this they made Ashurst sing, Stella playing him accompaniments from a book of Schumann songs, till, in the middle of “Ich grolle nicht” two small figures clad in blue dressing-gowns crept in and tried to conceal themselves beneath the piano. The evening broke up in confusion, and what Sabina called “a splendid rag.” That night Ashurst hardly slept at all. He was thinking, tossing and turning. The intense domestic intimacy of these last two days, the strength of this Halliday atmosphere, seemed to ring him round, and make the

358 John Galsworthy farm and Megan—even Megan—seem unreal. Had he really made love to her—really promised to take her away to live with him? He must have been bewitched by the spring, the night, the apple-blossom! The notion that he was going to make her his mistress—that simple child not yet eighteen—now filled him with a sort of horror, even while it still stung and whipped his blood. He muttered to himself: “It’s awful, what I’ve done—awful!” And the sound of Schumann’s music throbbed and mingled with his fevered thoughts, and he saw again Stella’s cool, white, fair-haired figure and bending neck, the queer, angelic radiance about her. “I must have been—I must be—mad!” he thought. “What came into me? Poor little Megan!” “God bless us all, and Mr. Ashes!” “I want to be with you—only to be with you!” And burying his face in his pillow, he smothered down a fit of sobbing. Not to go back was awful! To go back— more awful still! Emotion, when you are young, and give real vent to it, loses its power of torture. And he fell asleep, thinking: “What was it—a few kisses—all forgotten in a month!” Next morning he got his check cashed, but avoided the shop of the dove-grey dress like the plague; and, instead, bought himself some necessaries. He spent the whole day in a queer mood, cherishing a kind of sullenness against himself. Instead of the hankering of the last two days, he felt nothing but a blank—all passionate longing gone, as if quenched in that outburst of tears. After tea Stella put a book down beside him, and said shyly: “Have you read that, Frank?” It was Farrar’s “Life of Christ.” Ashurst smiled. Her anxiety about his beliefs seemed to him comic, but touching. Infectious, too, perhaps, for he began to have an itch to justify himself, if not to convert her. And in the evening, when the children and Halliday were mending their shrimping nets, he said: “At the back of orthodox religion, so far as I can see, there’s always the idea of reward—what you can get for being good; a kind of begging for favours. I think it all starts in fear.” She was sitting on the sofa making reefer knots with a bit of string. She looked up quickly: “I think it’s much deeper than that.” Ashurst felt again that wish to dominate. “You think so,” he said; “but wanting the quid pro quo is about the deepest thing in all of us! It’s jolly hard to get to the bottom of it!” She wrinkled her brows in a puzzled frown. “I don’t think I understand.” He went on obstinately: “Well, think, and see if the most religious peo-

359TH E AP PLE-TRE E ple aren’t those who feel that this life doesn’t give them all they want. I believe in being good because to be good is good in itself.” “Then you do believe in being good?” How pretty she looked now—it was easy to be good with her! And he nodded and said: “I say, show me how to make that knot!” With her fingers touching his, in manoeuvring the bit of string he felt soothed and happy. And when he went to bed he willfully kept his thoughts on her, wrapping himself in her fair, cool sisterly radiance, as in some garment of protection. Next day he found they had arranged to go by train to Totness, and picnic at Berry Pomeroy Castle. Still in that resolute oblivion of the past, he took his place with them in the landau beside Halliday, back to the horses. And, then, along the sea-front, nearly at the turning to the railway station, his heart almost leaped into his mouth. Megan—Megan herself!—was walking on the far pathway, in her old skirt and jacket and her Tam o’ Shanter, looking up into the faces of the passers-by. Instinctively he threw his hand up for cover, then made a feint of clearing dust out of his eyes; but between his fingers he could see her still, moving, not with her free country step, but wavering, lost-looking, pitiful—like some little dog which has missed its master and does not know whether to run on, to run back—where to run. How had she come like this?—what excuse had she found to get away?—what did she hope for? But with every turn of the wheels bearing him away from her, his heart revolted and cried to him to stop them, to get out, and go to her! When the landau turned the corner to the station he could stand it no more, and opening the carriage door, muttered: “I’ve forgotten something! Go on—don’t wait for me! I’ll join you at the castle by the next train!” He jumped, stumbled, spun round, recovered his balance, and walked forward, while the carriage with the astonished Hallidays rolled on. From the corner he could only just see Megan, a long way ahead now. He ran a few steps, checked himself, and dropped into a walk. With each step nearer to her, further from the Hallidays, he walked more and more slowly. How did it alter anything—this sight of her? How make the going to her, and that which must come of it, less ugly? For there was no hiding it—since he had met the Hallidays he had become gradually sure that he would not marry Megan. It would only be a wild love-time, a troubled, remorseful, difficult time—and then—well, then he would get tired, just because she gave him everything, was so simple, and so trustful, so dewy. And dew—wears off! The little spot of faded colour, her Tam o’

360 John Galsworthy Shanter cap, wavered on far in front of him; she was looking up into every face, and at the house windows. Had any man ever such a cruel moment to go through? Whatever he did, he felt he would be a beast. And he uttered a groan which made a nursemaid turn and stare. He saw Megan stop and lean against the sea-wall, looking at the sea; and he too stopped. Quite likely she had never seen the sea before, and even in her distress could not resist that sight. “Yes—she’s seen nothing,” he thought; “everything’s before her. And just for a few weeks’ passion, I shall be cutting her life to ribbons. I’d better go and hang myself rather than do it!” And suddenly he seemed to see Stella’s calm eyes looking into his, the wave of fluffy hair on her forehead stirred by the wind. Ah! it would be madness, would mean giving up all that he respected, and his own self-respect. He turned and walked quickly back towards the station. But memory of that poor, bewildered little figure, those anxious eyes searching the passers-by, smote him too hard again, and once more he turned towards the sea. The cap was no longer visible; that little spot of colour had vanished in the stream of the noon promenaders. And impelled by the passion of longing, the dearth which comes on one when life seems to be whiling something out of reach, he hurried forward. She was nowhere to be seen; for half an hour he looked for her; then on the beach flung himself face downward in the sand. To find her again he knew he had only to go to the station and wait till she returned from her fruitless quest, to take her train home; or to take train himself and go back to the farm, so that she found him there when she returned. But he lay inert in the sand, among the indifferent groups of children with their spades and buckets. Pity at her little figure wandering, seeking, was well nigh merged in the spring- running of his blood; for it was all wild feeling now—the chivalrous part, what there had been of it, was gone. He wanted her again, wanted her kisses, her soft, little body, her abandonment, all her quick, warm, pagan emotion; wanted the wonderful feeling of that night under the moonlit apple boughs; wanted it all with a horrible intensity, as the faun wants the nymph. The quick chatter of the little bright trout-stream, the dazzle of the buttercups, the rocks of the old “wild men”; the calling of the cuckoos and yaffles, the hooting of the owls; and the red moon peeping out of the velvet dark at the living whiteness of the blossom; and her face just out of reach at the window, lost in its love-look; and her heart against his, her lips answering his, under the apple-tree—all this besieged him. Yet he lay inert. What was it which struggled against pity and this feverish longing, and kept him there paralyzed in the warm sand? Three flaxen heads—a fair face with friendly blue-grey eyes, a slim hand press-

361TH E AP PLE-TRE E ing his, a quick voice speaking his name—”So you do believe in being good?” Yes, and a sort of atmosphere as of some old walled-in English garden, with pinks, and cornflowers, and roses, and scents of lavender and lilac—cool and fair, untouched, almost holy—all that he had been brought up to feel was clean and good. And suddenly he thought: “She might come along the front again and see me!” and he got up and made his way to the rock at the far end of the beach. There, with the spray biting into his face, he could think more coolly. To go back to the farm and love Megan out in the woods, among the rocks, with everything around wild and fitting—that, he knew, was impossible, utterly. To transplant her to a great town, to keep, in some little flat or rooms, one who belonged so wholly to Nature—the poet in him shrank from it. His passion would be a mere sensuous revel, soon gone; in London, her very simplicity, her lack of all intellectual quality, would make her his secret plaything—nothing else. The longer he sat on the rock, with his feet dangling over a greenish pool from which the sea was ebbing, the more clearly he saw this; but it was as if her arms and all of her were slipping slowly, slowly down from him, into the pool, to be carried away out to sea; and her face looking up, her lost face with beseeching eyes, and dark, wet hair—possessed, haunted, tortured him! He got up at last, scaled the low rock-cliff, and made his way down into a sheltered cove. Perhaps in the sea he could get back his control—lose this fever! And stripping off his clothes, he swam out. He wanted to tire himself so that nothing mattered, and swam recklessly, fast and far; then suddenly, for no reason, felt afraid. Suppose he could not reach shore again—suppose the current set him out—or he got cramps, like Halliday! He turned to swim in. The red cliffs looked a long way off. If he were drowned they would find his clothes. The Hallidays would know; but Megan perhaps never—they took no newspaper at the farm. And Phil Halliday’s words came back to him again: “A girl at Cambridge I might have—Glad I haven’t got her on my mind!” And in that moment of unreasoning fear he vowed he would not have her on his mind. Then his fear left him; he swam in easily enough, dried himself in the sun, and put on his clothes. His heart felt sore, but no longer ached; his body cool and refreshed. When one is as young as Ashurst, pity is not a violent emotion. And, back in the Hallidays’ sitting-room, eating a ravenous tea, he felt much like a man recovered from fever. Everything seemed new and clear; the tea, the buttered toast, and jam tasted absurdly good; tobacco had never smelt so nice. And walking up and down the empty room, he stopped here and there to touch or look. He took up Stella’s work-basket, fingered

362 John Galsworthy the cotton reels and a gayly coloured plait of sewing silks, smelt at the little bag filled with woodruff she kept among them. He sat down at the piano, playing tunes with one finger, thinking: “To-night she’ll play; I shall watch her while she’s playing; it does me good to watch her.” He took up the book, which still lay where she had placed it beside him, and tried to read. But Megan’s little, sad figure began to come back at once, and he got up and leaned in the window, listening to the thrushes in the Crescent gardens, gazing at the sea, dreamy and blue below the trees. A servant came in and cleared the tea away, and he still stood, inhaling the evening air, trying not to think. Then he saw the Hallidays coming through the gate of the Crescent, Stella a little in front of Phil and the children, with their baskets, and instinctively he drew back. His heart, too sore and discomfited, shrank from this encounter, yet wanted its friendly solace—bore a grudge against this influence, yet craved its cool innocence, and the pleasure of watching Stella’s face. From against the wall behind the piano he saw her come in and stand looking a little blank as though disappointed; then she saw him and smiled, a swift, brilliant smile which warmed yet irritated Ashurst. “You never came after us, Frank.” “No; I found I couldn’t.” “Look! We picked such lovely late violets!” She held out a bunch. Ashurst put his nose to them, and there stirred within him vague longings, chilled instantly by a vision of Megan’s anxious face lifted to the faces of the passers-by. He said shortly: “How jolly!” and turned away. He went up to his room, and, avoiding the children, who were coming up the stairs, threw himself on his bed, and lay there with his arms crossed over his face. Now that he felt the die really cast, and Megan given up, he hated himself, and almost hated the Hallidays and their atmosphere of healthy, happy English homes. Why should they have chanced here, to drive away first love—to show him that he was going to be no better than a common seducer? What right had Stella, with her fair, shy beauty, to make him know for certain that he would never marry Megan; and, tarnishing it all, bring him such bitterness of regretful longing and such pity? Megan would be back by now, worn out by her miserable seeking— poor little thing!—expecting, perhaps, to find him there when she reached home. Ashurst bit at his sleeve, to stifle a groan of remorseful longing. He went to dinner glum and silent, and his mood threw a dinge even over the children. It was a melancholy, rather ill-tempered evening, for they were all tired; several times he caught Stella looking at him with a hurt,

363TH E AP PLE-TRE E puzzled expression, and this pleased his evil mood. He slept miserably; got up quite early, and wandered out. He went down to the beach. Alone there with the serene, the blue, the sunlit sea, his heart relaxed a little. Conceited fool—to think that Megan would take it so hard! In a week or two she would almost have forgotten! And he—well, he would have the reward of virtue! A good young man! If Stella knew, she would give him her blessing for resisting that devil she believed in; and he uttered a hard laugh. But slowly the peace and beauty of sea and sky, the flight of the lonely sea-gulls, made him feel ashamed. He bathed, and turned homewards. In the Crescent gardens Stella herself was sitting on a camp-stool, sketching. He stole up close behind. How fair and pretty she was, bent diligently, holding up her brush, measuring, wrinkling her brows. He said gently: “Sorry I was such a beast last night, Stella.” She turned round, startled, flushed very pink, and said in her quick way: “It’s all right. I knew there was something. Between friends it doesn’t matter, does it?” Ashurst answered: “Between friends—and we are, aren’t we?” She looked up at him, nodded vehemently, and her upper teeth gleamed again in that swift, brilliant smile. Three days later he went back to London, traveling with the Hallidays. He had not written to the farm. What was there he could say? On the last day of April in the following year he and Stella were married. . . . Such were Ashurst’s memories, sitting against the wall among the gorse, on his silver-wedding day. At this very spot, where he had laid out the lunch, Megan must have stood outlined against the sky when he had first caught sight of her. Of all queer coincidences! And there moved in him a longing to go down and see again the farm and the orchard, and the meadow of the gypsy bogle. It would not take long; Stella would be an hour yet, perhaps. How well he remembered it all—the little crowning group of pinetrees, the steep-up grass hill behind! He paused at the farm gate. The low stone house, the yew-tree porch, the flowering currants—not changed a bit; even the old green chair was out there on the grass under the window, where he had reached up to her that night to take the key. Then he turned down the lane, and stood leaning on the orchard gate—grey skeleton of a gate, as then. A black pig even was wandering in there among the trees. Was it true that twenty-six years had passed, or had he

364 John Galsworthy dreamed and awakened to find Megan waiting for him by the big apple- tree? Unconsciously he put up his hand to his grizzled beard and brought himself back to reality. Opening the gate, he made his way down through the docks and nettles till he came to the edge, and the old apple-tree itself. Unchanged! A little more of the grey-green lichen, a dead branch or two, and for the rest it might have been only last night that he had embraced that mossy trunk after Megan’s flight and inhaled its woody savour, while above his head the moonlit blossom had seemed to breathe and live. In that early spring a few buds were showing already; the blackbirds shouting their songs, a cuckoo calling, the sunlight bright and warm. Incredibly the same—the chattering trout-stream, the narrow pool he had lain in every morning, splashing the water over his flanks and chest; and out there in the wild meadow the beech clump and the stone where the gypsy bogle was supposed to sit. And an ache for lost youth, a hankering, a sense of wasted love and sweetness, gripped Ashurst by the throat. Surely, on this earth of such wild beauty, one was meant to hold rapture to one’s heart, as this earth and sky held it! And yet, one could not! He went to the edge of the stream, and, looking down at the little pool, thought: “Youth and spring! What has become of them all, I wonder?” And then, in sudden fear of having this memory jarred by human encounter, he went back to the lane, and pensively retraced his steps to the cross-roads. Beside the car an old, grey-bearded labourer was leaning on a stick, talking to the chauffeur. He broke off at once, as though guilty of disrespect, and, touching his hat, prepared to limp on down the lane. Ashurst pointed to the narrow green mound. “Can you tell me what this is?” The old fellow stopped; on his face had come a look as though he were thinking: “You’ve come to the right shop, Mister!” “ ’Tes a grave,” he said. “But why out here?” The old man smiled. “That’s a tale, as yu may say. An’ not the first time as I’ve a-told et—there’s plenty folks asks ’bout that bit o’ turf. ‘Maid’s Grave’ us calls et, ’ereabouts.” Ashurst held out his pouch. “Have a fill?” The old man touched his hat again, and slowly filled an old clay pipe. His eyes, looking upward out of a mass of wrinkles and hair, were still quite bright. “If yu don’ mind, zurr, I’ll zet down—my leg’s ’urtin’ a bit to-day.” And he sat down on the mound of turf.

365TH E AP PLE-TRE E “There’s always a vlower on this grave. An’ ’tain’t so very lonesome, neither; brave lot o’ folks goes by now, in they new motor cars an’ things— not as ’twas in th’ old days. She’ve a-got company up ’ere. ’Twas a poor soul killed ’erself.” “I see!” said Ashurst. “Cross-roads burial. I didn’t know that custom was kept up.” “Ah! but ’twas a main long time ago. Us ’ad a parson as was very God-fearin’ then. Let me see, I’ve ’ad my pension six year come Michaelmas, an’ I were just on fifty when ’t ’appened. There’s none livin’ knows more about et than what I du. She belonged close ’ere; same farm as where I used to work along o’ Mrs. Narracombe—’tes Nick Narracombe’s now; I dus a bit for ’im still, odd times.” Ashurst, who was leaning against the gate, lighting his pipe, left his curved hands before his face for long after the flame of the match had gone out. “Yes?” he said, and to himself his voice sounded hoarse and queer. “She was one in an ’underd, poor maid! I putts a vlower ’ere every time I passes. Pretty maid an’ gude maid she was, though they wouldn’t burry ’er up tu th’ church, nor where she wanted to be burried neither.” The old labourer paused, and put his hairy, twisted hand flat down on the turf beside the blue bells. “Yes?” said Ashurst. “In a manner of speakin’,” the old man went on, “I think as ’twas a love-story—though there’s no one never knu for zartin. Yu can’t tell what’s in a maid’s ’ead—but that’s wot I think about it.” He drew his hand along the turf. “I was fond o’ that maid—don’ know as there was any one as wasn’ fond of ’er. But she was tu lovin’-’earted—that’s where ’twas, I think.” He looked up. And Ashurst, whose lips were trembling in the cover of his beard, murmured again: “Yes?” “ ’Twas in the spring, ’bout now as’t might be, or a little later—blossom time—an’ we ’ad one o’ they young college gentlemen stayin’ at the farm—nice feller tu, with ’is ’ead in the air. I liked ’e very well, an’ I never see nothin’ between ’em, but to my thinkin’ ’e turned the maid’s fancy.” The old man took the pipe out of his mouth, spat, and went on: “Yu see, ’e went away sudden one day, an’ never come back. They got ‘is knapsack and bits o’ things down there still. That’s what stuck in my mind— ’is never sendin’ for ’em. ’Is name was Ashes, or somethin’ like that.” “Yes?” said Ashurst once more. The old man licked his lips. “ ’Er never said nothin’, but from that day ’er went kind of dazed lukin’;

366 John Galsworthy didn’ seem rightly therr at all. I never knu a ’uman creature so changed in me life—never. There was another young feller at the farm—Joe Biddaford ‘is name wer’—that was praaperly sweet on ’er, tu; I guess ’e used to plague ’er wi’ ’is attentions. She got to luke quite wild. I’d zee her sometimes of an avenin’ when I was bringin’ up the calves; ther’ she’d stand in th’ orchard, under the big apple-tree, lukin’ straight before ’er. ‘Well,’ I used t’ think, ‘I dunno what ’tes that’s the matter wi’ yu, but yu’m lukin’ pittiful, that yu be!’ ” The old man relit his pipe, and sucked at it reflectively. “Yes?” said Ashurst. “I remembers one day I said to ’er: ‘What’s the matter, Megan?’—’er name was Megan David, she come from Wales same as ’er aunt, ol’ Missis Narracombe. ‘Yu’m frettin’ about something,’ I says. ‘No, Jim,’ she says, ‘I’m not frettin’.’ ‘Yes, yu be!’ I says. ‘No,’ she says, and tu tears cam’ rollin’ out. ‘Yu’m cryin’—what’s that, then?’ I says. She putts ’er ‘and over ’er ’eart: ‘It ’urts me,’ she says; ‘but ’twill sune be better,’ she says. ‘But if anything shude ’appen to me, Jim, I wants to be buried under this ’ere apple-tree.’ I laughed. ‘What’s goin’ to ’appen to yu?’ I says: ‘don’t ’ee be fulish.’ ‘No,’ she says, ‘I won’t be fulish.’ Well, I know what maids are, an’ I never thought no more about et, till tu days arter that, ’bout six in the avenin’ I was comin’ up wi’ the calves, when I see somethin’ dark lyin’ in the strame, close to that big apple-tree. I says to meself: ‘Is that a pig— funny place for a pig to get to!’ an’ I goes up to et, an’ I see what ’twas.” The old man stopped: his eyes, turned upward, had a bright, suffering look. “ ’Twas the maid, in a little narrer pool ther’ that’s made by the stoppin’ of a rock—where I see the young gentleman bathin’ once or twice. ’Er was lyin’ on ’er face in the watter. There was a plant o’ goldie- cups growin’ out o’ the stone just above ’er ’ead. An’ when I come to luke at ’er face, ’twas luvly, butiful, so calm’s a baby’s—wonderful butiful et was. When the doctor saw ’er, ’e said: ‘ ’Er culdn’ never a-done it in that little bit o’ watter if ’er ’adn’t a-been in an extarsy.’ Ah! an’ judgin’ from ’er face, that was just ’ow she was. Et made me cry praaper—butiful et was! ’Twas June then, but she’d a-found a little bit of apple-blossom left over somewheres, and stuck et in ’er ’air. That’s why I thinks ’er must a-been in an extarsy, to go to et gay, like that. Why! there wasn’t more than a fute and ’arf o’ watter. But I tell ’ee one thing—that meadder’s ’arnted; I knu et, an’ she knu et; an’ no one’ll persuade me as ’tesn’t. I told ’em what she said to me ’bout bein’ burried under th’ apple-tree. But I think that turned ’em—made et luke tu much ’s ef she’d ’ad it in ’er mind

367TH E AP PLE-TRE E deliberate; an’ so they burried ’er up ’ere. Parson we ’ad then was very particular, ’e was.” Again the old man drew his hand over the turf. “ ’Tes wonderful, et seems,” he added slowly, “what maids ’ll du for love. She ’ad a lovin’ ’eart; I guess ’twas broken. But us never knu nothin’!” He looked up as if for approval of his story, but Ashurst had walked past him as if he were not there. Up on the top of the hill, beyond where he had spread the lunch, over, out of sight, he lay down on his face. So had his virtue been rewarded, and “the Cyprian,” goddess of love, taken her revenge! And before his eyes, dim with tears, came Megan’s face with the sprig of apple-blossoms in her dark, wet hair. “What did I do that was wrong?” he thought. “What did I do?” But he could not answer. Spring, with its rush of passion, its flowers and song—the spring in his heart and Megan’s! Was it just Love seeking a victim! The Greek was right, then—the words of the “Hippolytus” as true to-day! For mad is the heart of Love, And gold the gleam of his wing; And all to the spell thereof Bend when he makes his spring. All life that is wild and young In mountain and wave and stream, All that of earth is sprung, Or breathes in the red sunbeam; Yea, and Mankind. O’er all a royal throne Cyprian, Cyprian, is thine alone! The Greek was right! Megan! Poor little Megan—coming over the hill! Megan under the old apple-tree waiting and looking! Megan dead, with beauty printed on her! . . . A voice said: “Oh, there you are! Look.” Ashurst rose, took his wife’s sketch, and stared at it in silence. “Is the foreground right, Frank?” “Yes.” “But there’s something wanting, isn’t there?” Ashurst nodded. Wanting? The apple-tree, the singing, and the gold!

368 Gustave Flaubert 1821–1880 Gustave Flaubert was born in Rouen, France, on December 12, 1821.He grew up in the city hospital, where his father was chief surgeon. In 1837, while he was still in school, his work was first published in a review, Le Colibri. He visited the Pyrénées, Marseilles, and Corsica with the anatomist Jules Cloquet and studied law at the University of Paris. Nervous troubles and lack of interest caused him to drop out. After the death of his father and sister in 1846, he retired with his mother to the family estate at Croisset on the Seine, where he would spend most of his life. In the summer of that year he met the poet Louise Colet and began a nine-year association with her. A walking tour in Brittany with the writer Maxime du Camp produced By Fields and by Strands, published after his death. During this period he was engaged on manuscripts that would later be reworked into his famous books. In 1849–51 he and du Camp traveled in Egypt, Palestine, Syria, Turkey, Greece, and Italy. Five years of steady labor created Madame Bovary, perhaps the first modern novel. In 1856 it was brought out in the Revue de Paris and appeared as a book the next year. At once the French govern- ment indicted Flaubert on charges of immorality. He was acquitted. Six months later the same court convicted the poet Baudelaire for certain poems in Les Fleurs du mal. Flaubert traveled in North Africa and devoured whole libraries to produce Salammbô, a novel about Hamilcar’s daughter and the war between Carthaginians and mercenaries. The book, published in 1862 (dated 1863), was given a triumphant welcome. Like Henry James, Flaubert wrote plays and had little luck with them. The novel Sentimental Education, his great picture of Paris in mid-century,

369Gustave Flaubert went largely unnoticed in the excitement that preceded the War of 1870. Then there were Prussians in Flaubert’s garden at Croisset. After the war, his niece’s husband was threatened with bankruptcy. Flaubert signed over his fortune to them. The Temptation of Saint Anthony appeared in 1874. Three Tales, which included A Simple Heart, The Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller (see below), and Hérodias, was published three years later. At his death, he had all but finished Bouvard and Pécuchet. He was the prime inventor of the modern novel, the first writer to treat the novel as an art and make it one. He died at Croisset on May 8, 1880. In 1846 Flaubert had seen and remembered a small statue ofSt. Julian at Caudebec. A stained-glass window in Rouen Cathedral, familiar to him since childhood, depicted episodes from St. Julian’s life. Out of such hints he began to weave the superb tapestry of The Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller. Aside from his extreme Christian charity, Flaubert’s Julian bears little likeness to the saint. The canonized Julian was said to be an Egyptian who lived with his wife, Basilissa, “in perpetual chastity” and kept “a kind of hospital.” It is reported that his skull was brought into France and presented to Queen Brunehault in the time of St. Gregory the Great. Flaubert made a fresh beginning and created a medieval legend of great richness and power. Though it is written in sharp and compact modern French, it catches the tone and bare movement of the true medieval romance. It is graver and more realistic than such romans d’aventure as Aucassin and Nicolette.1 Its magic and supernatural touches remind us of the Breton romances. But when we have said these things, we cannot help but acknowledge the quite “modern” starkness of Julian’s mad hunting, the “modern” rightness of choice in each detail. Nor should we forget that Oedipus and Orestes too were condemned to the same fate as Julian, or what self-punishment they too found for themselves. Out of his sense of guilt, his need for self-punishment—to do penance, in the religious phrase—comes Julian’s humble and practical service to others. He does not call it love. But it is un- limited, as perfect love may be. He has risked his life many times, 1 See Vol. 2, pp. 523–551, in this set.

370 Gustave Flaubert boldly, in hunting and war. Now he is willing to risk it again to save a loathsome fellow creature from freezing to death. So the Leper and Julian are both transformed. A miracle happens—the kind of miracle we encounter in the literature of every compassionate religion, because the need to help others, even at the risk of our lives, is a basic human trait of feeling. We are not surprised that Turgenev translated his friend’s tale into Russian. Readers of Dostoevsky and the later Tolstoy would understand it very well. But unlike Tolstoy, Flaubert allows no moralizing shadow to fall on his page. “Devotion to art was a law of his nature,” says the biographer Philip Spencer. From first to last the tale must be held to its own true shape and feeling. And what a triumph of selection and placement it is! What a living stir and color it has! St. Julian contains enough movement for a dozen historical novels, yet it remains perfectly in scale. We follow it as eagerly as if it were some trivial adventure story, convinced that even its phantoms and speaking animals are “true,” happy or grieved or horrified at Julian’s progress through a world of coarse sense and spirit. Does it tell us something about the mixture of masculine and feminine in our nature? Is it a parable of moral death and redemption? Or of perfect mystical union with Christ? Or do we find in Julian a symbol of man at war, who can be brought to love again only by overwhelming guilt and grief?

371 The Legend of St. Julian the Hospitaller ulian’s father and mother lived in a castle with a forest round it, on the slope of a hill. The four towers at its corners had pointed roofs covered with scales of lead, and the walls were planted upon shafts of rock which fell steeply to the bottom of the moat. The pavement of the court-yard was as clean as the flag-stones of a church. Long gutter spouts in the form of leaning dragons spat the rain-water down into the cistern; and on the window- ledges of each story, in pots of painted earthenware, a heliotrope or basil flowered. A second enclosure made with stakes held a fruit-orchard to begin with, and then a flower garden patterned into figures; then a trellis with arbours where you took the air, and an alley for the pages to play mall. On the other side were the kennels, the stables, the bake-house, the presses, and the barns. A green and turfy pasture spread all round this, enclosed in turn by a stout thorn-hedge. They had lived at peace so long that the portcullis was never lowered now. The moats were full of grass; swallows nested in the cracks of the battlements; and when the sun blazed too strongly the archer who paced all day long the rampart took refuge in his turret and slept like a monk. Inside there was a sheen of ironwork everywhere; the rooms were hung with tapestries against the cold; the cupboards overflowed with linen; casks of wine were piled up in the cellars, and the oaken coffers creaked with the weight of bags of money. In the armoury, between standards and wild beasts’ heads, could be seen weapons of every age and every nation, from the slings of the Amalekites and the javelins of the Garamantes to the short swords of the Saracens and Norman coats of mail. The chief spit in the kitchen could roast an ox; the chapel was as splendid as

372 Gustave Flaubert a king’s oratory. There was even, in a secluded corner, a Roman vapour- bath; but the good lord abstained from using it, considering it a practice of the heathen. Wrapped always in a mantle of fox skins, he walked about his castle, administering justice to his vassals and setting the disputes of his neighbours at rest. In winter he watched the snowflakes falling or had stories read to him. With the first fine days he rode out on his mule along the by-ways, beside the greening corn, and chatted with the peasants, to whom he gave advice. After many adventures he had taken a lady of high lineage as his wife. Very white of skin she was, a little proud and serious. The horns of her coif brushed against the door lintel, and the train of her dress trailed three paces behind her. Her household was ordered like the inside of a monastery; every morning she gave out the tasks to the servants, inspected the preserves and unguents, span at her distaff or embroidered altar- cloths. By dint of prayer to God a son was born to her. Then there were great rejoicings and a banquet which lasted three days and four nights, with the illumination of torches, the sound of harps, and strewing of green branches. They ate of the rarest spices, and fowls as large as sheep; a dwarf came out of a pasty, to amuse the guests; and as the throng was always increasing and the bowls would go round no longer, they were obliged to drink out of horns and helmets. The lady who had just been made a mother was not present at this cheer. She stayed quietly in her bed. Waking one evening, she saw as it were a shadow moving under a ray of the moon which came through the window. It was an old man in a frieze gown, with a chaplet at his side, a wallet on his shoulder, and all the semblance of a hermit. He came towards her pillow and said to her, without opening his lips: “Rejoice, O mother, thy son shall be a saint!” She was just going to cry out, but he glided over the streak of moonlight, rose gently into the air and vanished. The songs of the banqueters broke out louder. She heard angels’ voices; and her head fell back on the pillow, over which, framed with garnets, hung a martyr’s bone. Next morning all the servants were questioned and said they had seen no hermit. Whether it were a dream or reality, it must have been a communication from Heaven; but she was careful not to speak of it, fearing she might be taxed with pride. The guests went off at morning twilight, and Julian’s father was outside the postern gate, to which he had just escorted the last to go, when

373TH E LEG E N D OF ST. J U LIAN TH E HOS P ITALLE R suddenly a beggar rose before him in the mist. He was a gipsy, with a plaited beard and silver rings on his arms, and fiery eyes. With an air of inspiration he stammered these disjointed words: “Ah, ah! thy son! Blood in plenty! . . . Fame in plenty! . . . Blest always—the family of an emperor!” And stooping to pick up his alms he was lost in the grass and disappeared. The good castellan looked right and left, and called with all his might. No one! The wind blew shrill; the mists of morning flew away. He put down this vision to a weary head, from having slept too little. “If I speak of it they will make a jest of me,” he said to himself. Yet the glories destined to his son dazzled him, although the promise was not clear and he doubted even whether he had heard it. The husband and wife each kept their secret. But they cherished their child, both of them, with an equal love; and, reverencing him as marked out by God, had an infinite care for his person. His cot was stuffed with the finest down; a lamp shaped like a dove burned continually above it, three nurses rocked him; and well swaddled in his clothes, with his rosy looks and blue eyes, a brocade cloak and a cap set with pearls, he looked a little Jesus. He teethed without crying at any time. When he was seven his mother taught him to sing. To make him brave his father lifted him on to a big horse. The child smiled with pleasure and before long knew all about chargers. A learned old monk taught him Holy Writ, the Arabic way of counting, the Latin letters, and how to make dainty pictures on vellum. They worked together high up in a turret away from all noise. The lesson over, they came down into the garden and studied the flowers, pausing at every step. Sometimes a string of laden beasts was seen passing below in the valley, led by a man on foot dressed in the Eastern way. The castellan, recognizing him for a merchant, would send a servant out to him, and the stranger, taking heart, would turn out of his road. He would be brought into the parlour, where he drew out of his coffers strips of velvet and silk, jewels, perfumes, and curious things of unknown use; after which the worthy man went off, having taken a great profit and suffered no violence. At other times a band of pilgrims would come knocking at the gate. Their draggled garments steamed before the fire; and when they had been well fed they told the story of their travels: wanderings on shipboard over foamy seas, journeyings afoot in burning sands, the

374 Gustave Flaubert furious rage of paynims, the caves of Syria, the Manger and the Sepulchre. Then they would give the young lord scallop-shells from their cloaks. Often the castellan feasted his old companions-at-arms. While they drank they called to mind their wars and the storming of fortresses, with the crash of warlike engines and the prodigious wounds. Julian listened to them and uttered cries; and his father had no doubt, then, that he would be a conqueror one day. Yet at evening, coming from the Angelus, as he passed between the bending rows of poor, he dipped in his purse with such modesty and so noble a mien that his mother thought surely to see him an archbishop in his time. His place in chapel was by the side of his parents, and however long the offices might be he stayed kneeling at his stool, with his cap on the floor and his hands clasped in prayer. One day, while mass was being said, he raised his head and saw a little white mouse coming out of a hole in the wall. It trotted along the first pace of the altar, and after making two or three turns to right and left fled by the way it had come. Next Sunday he was troubled by the thought that he might see it again. It did come back; and then every Sunday he watched for it, was troubled, seized with hatred for it, and determined to get rid of the mouse. So, having shut the door and sprinkled some cake crumbs along the altar steps, he took post in front of the hole with a little stick in his hand. After a very long time a small pink nose appeared, and then the entire mouse. He struck a light blow, and stood lost in amazement at this tiny body which did not stir again. A drop of blood spotted the pavement. Julian wiped it off rapidly with his sleeve, threw the mouse away, and did not say a word to anyone. There were all kinds of little birds which pecked at the seeds in the garden. Julian had the thought of putting peas into a hollow reed. When he heard the sound of chirruping in a tree he came up softly, lifted his pipe, and blew out his cheeks; and the little creatures rained down in such abundance on his shoulders that he could not help laughing in delight at his trick. One morning, as he was going back along the curtain wall, he saw a fat pigeon on the top of the rampart, preening itself in the sun. Julian stopped to look at it, and as there was a breach in this part of the wall a fragment of stone lay ready to his hand. He swung his arm, and the stone brought down the bird, which fell like a lump into the moat. He dashed down after it, tearing himself in the briars and scouring

375TH E LEG E N D OF ST. J U LIAN TH E HOS P ITALLE R everywhere, nimbler than a young dog. The pigeon, its wings broken, hung quivering in the boughs of a privet. The obstinate life in it annoyed the child. He began to throttle it, and the bird’s convulsions made his heart beat, filled him with a savage, passionate delight. When it stiffened for the last time he felt that he would swoon. At supper in the evening his father declared that it was time for him to learn the art of venery, and he went to look for an old manuscript which contained, in questions and answers, the whole pastime of the chase. A master explained in it to his pupil the craft of breaking in dogs, taming falcons, and setting snares; how to know the stag by his droppings, the fox by his foot-marks, the wolf by his scratchings of the ground; the right way to discern their tracks, the manner of starting them, the usual places of their lairs, the most favourable winds, and a list of all the calls and the rules for the quarry. When Julian could repeat all this by heart his father gathered a pack of hounds for him. The first to catch the eye were twenty-four greyhounds from Barbary, swifter than gazelles, but prone to get out of hand; and then seventeen couples of Breton hounds, with red coats and white spots, unshakeable in control, deep-chested, loud to bay. To face the wild boar and its dangerous redoublings there were forty boar-hounds, as shaggy as bears. Mastiffs from Tartary nearly as tall as asses and flame-coloured, with broad backs and straight legs, were assigned to hunt the aurochs. The black coats of the spaniels shone like satin, and the yapping of the talbots matched the chanting of the beagles. In a yard by themselves, tossing their chains and rolling their eyes, growled eight Alain dogs, fearsome animals that fly at the belly of a horseman and have no dread of lions. All of them ate wheaten bread, drank out of stone troughs, and bore sonorous names. The falconry, maybe, was choicer even than the pack; for by dint of money the good lord had secured tercelets of the Caucasus, sakers from Babylonia, gerfalcons of Germany, and peregrines taken on the cliffs at the edge of cold seas in far quarters of the world. They were housed in a big shed roofed with thatch, and fastened to the perching bar in a row according to their size, with a strip of turf before them where they were placed from time to time to unstiffen their limbs. Purse-nets, hooks, wolf-traps, and engines of every kind were artfully made. Often they took out setters into the country, who quickly came to a point. Then huntsmen, advancing step by step, cautiously spread a huge

376 Gustave Flaubert net over their motionless bodies. At a word of command they barked; quails took wing; and the ladies of the neighbourhood who had been bidden with their husbands, the children, the handmaids, the whole company darted on the birds and easily caught them. At other times they would beat drums to start the hares; foxes fell into pits, or a trap would spring and take hold of a wolf’s paw. But Julian spurned these handy devices. He preferred to hunt far away from the rest with his horse and his falcon. It was almost always a great Scythian tartaret, white as snow. Its leathern hood was topped with a plume, bells of gold quivered on its blue feet; and it stood firmly in its master’s arm while the horse galloped and the plains unrolled below. Julian, freeing the jesses, would suddenly let it go; the daring bird rose straight as an arrow into the sky; and you saw two specks, one larger and one smaller, circle, meet, and then vanish in the high blue spaces. The falcon soon came down, tearing a quarry, and returned to perch on the gauntlet with its wings a-quiver. In that way Julian flew his falcons at the heron, the kite, the crow, and the vulture. He loved to blow his horn and follow his hounds as they coursed along the sloping hills, jumped the streams, and climbed to the woods again; and when the stag began groaning under their bites he felled it cleverly, and was delighted by the fury of the mastiffs as they devoured it, hewn in pieces on its reeking hide. On misty days he went down into a marsh to ambush the geese, otters, and wild duck. Three squires waited for him from dawn at the foot of the steps, and though the old monk might lean out of his window and make signs to call him back Julian would not turn. He went out in the heat of the sun, under the rain, and amidst storms, drinking water from the springs out of his hand, munching wild apples as he trotted along, and resting under an oak if he were tired; and he came in at midnight covered in blood and mire, with thorns in his hair and the odour of the wild beasts hanging round him. He became as one of them. When his mother kissed him he took her embrace coldly, and seemed to be dreaming of deep things. He slew bears with strokes of his knife. bulls with the axe, and wild boars with the pike; and once, even, defended himself with nothing but a stick against wolves that were gnawing corpses at the foot of a gibbet. One winter morning he started in full trim before dawn, with a cross- bow on his shoulder and a quiver of arrows at his saddle-bow. His Danish jennet [horse], followed by two bassets, made the earth

377TH E LEG E N D OF ST. J U LIAN TH E HOS P ITALLE R ring under its even tread. Drops of rime stuck to his cloak, and a fierce breeze blew. The sky lightened at one side, and in the pale twilight he saw rabbits hopping at the edge of their burrows. The two bassets dashed for them at once, jumping hither and thither as they broke their backs. Soon after he entered a wood. At the end of a branch a grouse, numbed by the cold, slept with its head under its wing. With a back-stroke of his sword Julian cut off its two feet, and without stopping to pick it up went on his way. Three hours later he found himself on the top of a mountain, which was so high that the sky seemed almost black. A rock like a long wall sloped away in front of him, cresting a precipice; and at the farther end of it two wild goats were looking down into the chasm. Not having his arrows at hand—he had left his horse behind—he thought he would go right down upon the goats; and stooping double, barefoot, he reached the first of them at last and plunged his dagger under its ribs. The other was seized with panic and jumped into the abyss. Julian leaped to strike it, and, his right foot slipping, fell across the body of the first, with his face hanging over the gulf and arms flung wide. He came down into the plain again and followed a line of willows bordering a river. Cranes, flying very low, passed overhead from time to time. Julian brought them down with his whip, not missing one. Meanwhile the air had grown warmer and melted the rime; there were broad wreaths of vapour floating, and the sun appeared. Far off he saw a still lake glistening like a sheet of lead. In the middle of it was an animal which Julian did not know, a black-headed beaver. In spite of the distance he killed it with an arrow, and was vexed not to be able to carry off its skin. Then he went on down an avenue of great trees, whose tops made a kind of triumphal arch at the entrance of a forest. A roebuck bounded out of a thicket, a fallow deer showed itself at a crossing, a badger came out of a hole, a peacock spread its tail on the grass; and when he had slain them all more roebuck, deer, badgers, peacocks and blackbirds, jays, polecats, foxes, hedgehogs, lynxes—an endless company of beasts— appeared and grew more numerous at every step. Tremblingly they circled round him, with gentle supplicating looks. But Julian did not tire of killing, by turns bending his cross-bow, unsheathing his long sword, and thrusting with his short, thinking of nothing, with no memory of anything at all. Only the fact of his existence told him that for an indefinite time he had been hunting in some vague country, where all happened with the ease of dreams. An extraordinary sight brought him to a halt. A valley

378 Gustave Flaubert shaped like an arena was filled with stags, who crowded close together warming each other with their breath, which could be seen steaming in the mist. The prospect of a slaughter like this for a minute or two took Julian’s breath away for pleasure. Then he dismounted, rolled up his sleeves, and began to shoot. At the whistle of the first arrow all the stags turned their heads at once. Hollows opened in the mass, plaintive cries rose, and a great stir shook the herd. The brim of the valley was too high to climb. They leaped about in this enclosure, trying to escape. Julian aimed and shot, and the arrows fell like rain shafts in a thunder-storm. The maddened stags fought, reared, and climbed on each other’s backs; and the bodies and entangled antlers made a broad mound which crumbled and changed. At last they died, stretched on the sand, their nostrils frothing, entrails bursting, and bellies slowly ceasing to heave. Then all was motionless. Night was close at hand; and behind the woods, in the interspaces of the boughs, the sky was red as a sheet of blood. Julian leant back against a tree, and gazed with staring eyes at the enormous massacre; he could not think how it had been done. Then across the valley, at the edge of the forest, he saw a stag with its hind and its fawn. The stag was black and hugely tall; it carried sixteen points and a white beard. The hind, pale yellow like a dead leaf, was grazing; and the spotted fawn, without hindering her movements, pulled at her dugs. Once more the cross-bow sang. The fawn was killed on the spot. Then its mother, looking skyward, bellowed with a deep, heart-breaking, human cry. In exasperation Julian stretched her on the ground with a shot full in the breast. The great stag had seen it, and made a bound. Julian shot his last arrow at him. It hit the stag in the forehead and stuck fast there. The great stag did not seem to feel it; striding over the dead bodies, he came on and on, in act to charge and disembowel him; and Julian retreated in unspeakable terror. The monstrous creature stopped, and with flaming eyes, as solemn as a patriarch or judge, said three times, while a bell tinkled in the distance: “Accurst! accurst! accurst! one day, ferocious heart, thou shalt murder thy father and thy mother!” The stag’s knees bent, his eyes closed gently, and he died. Julian was thunderstruck, and then suddenly felt crushed with fatigue;

379TH E LEG E N D OF ST. J U LIAN TH E HOS P ITALLE R disgust and boundless sadness came over him. He buried his face in his hands and wept for a long time. His horse was lost, his dogs had left him; the solitude which folded round him seemed looming with vague dangers. Seized with alarm, he struck across country, and choosing a path at random found himself almost immediately at the castle-gate. He could not sleep at night. By the flickering of the hanging lamps he always saw the great black stag. The creature’s prophecy besieged him, and he fought against it. “No! no! no! it cannot be that I should kill them!” And then he mused: “Yet if I should wish to kill?” and he was afraid that the Devil might inspire him with the wish. For three months his mother prayed in anguish by his pillow, and his father walked to and fro along the corridors with groans. He sent for the most famous master physicians, who prescribed quantities of drugs. Julian’s malady, they said, was caused by a noxious wind, or by a love-desire. But the young man, in answer to all questions, shook his head. His strength came back to him, and they took him out to walk in the court-yard, the old monk and the good lord each propping him with an arm. When he had recovered altogether he obstinately refused to hunt. His father, hoping to cheer him, made him a present of a great Saracen sword. It was in a stand of arms, at the top of a pillar, and a ladder was needed to reach it. Julian went up. The sword was too heavy and slipped from his fingers, and in the fall grazed the worthy lord so close as to cut his mantle; Julian thought he had killed his father, and fainted away. From that moment he dreaded weapons. The sight of a bare blade made him turn pale. This weakness was a sorrow to his family, and at last the old monk, in the name of God, of honour, and his ancestors, bade him take up the exercises of his gentle birth again. The squires amused themselves daily at practising with the javelin. Julian very quickly excelled in this; he could throw his javelin into the neck of a bottle, break the teeth of a weather-vane, and hit the nails on a door a hundred paces off. One summer evening, at the hour when things grow indistinct in the dusk, he was under the trellis in the garden and saw right at the end of it two white wings fluttering by the top of its supports. He made sure it was a stork, and threw his javelin. A piercing cry rang out. It was his mother, whose bonnet with long flaps stayed pinned to the wall.

380 Gustave Flaubert Julian fled from the castle and was seen there no more. He took service with a passing troop of adventurers and knew hunger and thirst, fevers and vermin. He grew accustomed to the din of mellays and the sight of dying men. The wind tanned his skin. His limbs hardened under the clasp of armour; and as he was very strong, valiant, temperate, and wary he won the command of a company with ease. When a battle opened he swept on his soldiers with a great flourish of his sword. He scaled the walls of citadels with a knotted rope at night, swinging in the blasts, while sparks of Greek fire stuck to his cuirass and boiling resin and molten lead hissed from the battlements. Often a stone crashed and shivered his buckler. Bridges overladen with men gave way under him. Swinging his battle-ax to and fro, he got rid of fourteen horsemen. In the lists he overcame all challengers. More than a score of times he was left for dead. Thanks to the favour of Heaven he always came out safely, for he protected clerks, orphans, widows, and, most of all, old men. When he saw one of them walking in front of him he called out to see his face, as though he were afraid of killing him by mistake. Runaway slaves, peasants in revolt, fortuneless bastards, and venturous men of all sorts flocked under his banner, and he made an army of his own. It grew, and he became famous. The world sought him out. He succoured in turn the Dauphin of France and the King of England, the Templars of Jerusalem, the Surena of the Parthians, the Negus of Abyssinia, and the Emperor of Calicut. He fought against Scandinavians covered with fish-scales, Negroes with bucklers of hippopotamus hide, mounted on red asses, and gold-coloured Indians flourishing broadswords brighter than mirrors above their diadems. He subdued the Troglodytes and the Anthropophages. He went through such burning regions that the hair on the head caught fire of itself, like torches, in the sun’s heat; through others so freezing that the arms snapped from the body and fell to the ground; and countries where there was so much mist that you walked surrounded by phantoms. Republics in distress consulted him, and in colloquies with ambassadors he gained unhoped-for terms. If a monarch behaved too badly Julian was quickly on the spot and took him to task. He set free peoples and delivered queens immured in towers. He it was, no other, who slew the viper of Milan and the dragon of Oberbirbach. Now the Emperor of Occitania, having triumphed over the Spanish

381TH E LEG E N D OF ST. J U LIAN TH E HOS P ITALLE R Moslems, had taken the sister of the Caliph of Cordova as his concubine, and by her he had a daughter whom he had brought up to be a Christian. But the Caliph, feigning a wish to be converted, came to return his visit with a numerous escort, put all his garrison to the sword, and threw him into an underground dungeon, where he used him cruelly to extort his treasure. Julian hastened to his aid, destroyed the army of the infidels, besieged the town, killed the Caliph, cut off his head, and threw it over the ramparts like a ball. Then he drew the Emperor out of prison and set him on his throne again, in the presence of all his court. To requite this great service the Emperor presented him with basketfuls of money; Julian would have none of it. Thinking that he wanted more, he offered him three-quarters of his wealth, and was refused again; then the half of his kingdom; Julian thanked him and declined. The Emperor was in tears of distress, seeing no way to show his gratitude, when he tapped his forehead and whispered in a courtier’s ear; the curtains of a tapestry lifted and a maiden appeared. Her large dark eyes gleamed like two gentle lamps; her lips were parted in a winning smile. The ringlets of her hair caught in the jewels of a half-opened robe, and under the transparent tunic the young lines of her body could be guessed. She was slim of figure, all daintiness and softness. Julian was dazzled with love, the more because he had lived in great chastity till then. So he took the Emperor’s daughter in marriage, with a castle that she held from her mother; and when the wedding was over he and his host parted, after a long exchange of courtesies. It was a palace of white marble, in the Moorish fashion, built on a promontory in a grove of orange-trees. Terraces of flowers sloped to the edge of a bay, where there were pink shells that crackled under foot. Behind the castle stretched a forest in the shape of a fan. The sky was blue unceasingly, and the trees waved by turns under the sea breeze and the wind from the mountains, which closed the horizon far away. The rooms were full of shadow, but drew light from their incrusted walls. High columns, slender as reeds, supported their domed vaults, which were embossed in relief to imitate the stalactites in caves. There were fountains in the greater rooms, mosaics in the courts, festooned partitions, delicacies of architecture beyond number, and everywhere so deep a silence that one heard the rustle of a scarf or the echo of a sigh. Julian made war no longer. He rested with a quiet people round him,

382 Gustave Flaubert and every day a crowd passed before him, making obeisances and kissing hands in the Eastern style. In his purple dress he would stay leaning in the embrasure of a window, recalling his hunts of former days; and he would have liked to scour the desert after gazelles and ostriches, hide among the bamboos to wait for leopards, traverse forests full of rhinoceroses, climb the most inaccessible mountain tops to take better aim at eagles, and fight with white bears on icebergs in the sea. Sometimes, in dreams, he saw himself like our father Adam in the midst of Paradise, among all the beasts. He stretched out his arm against them, and they died; or else, again, they defiled before him, two by two according to their size, from the elephants and lions to the ermines and the ducks, as on the day when they entered Noah’s ark. From the shadow of a cave he rained darts on them which never missed; other animals appeared; there was no end to them, and he woke with his eyes rolling wildly. Among his friends there were princes who invited him to hunt. He always refused, thinking that by a penance of this kind he would turn aside his curse, for it seemed to him that the slaughter of animals would decide the fate of his father and mother. But it was a grief to him not to see his parents, and his other secret desire became impossible to bear. His wife sent for jugglers and dancers to amuse him. She went out with him into the country in an open litter; and at other times they would lie in a boat and watch, over the side, the fish roaming in water as clear as the sky. Often she threw flowers in his face, or crouching at his feet drew music from a three-stringed mandolin; and then, laying her clasped hands on his shoulder, said timidly, “What ails thee then, dear Lord?” He did not answer, or break into sobs. At last, one day, he confessed his horrible thought. She fought against it, arguing very well. His father and mother, most likely, were already dead; but if he ever saw them again what chance or purpose could lead him to this abominable deed? His fear was causeless, then, and he should return to the hunt. Julian smiled as he listened to her, but could not make up his mind to fulfil his desire. One August evening they were in their chamber, she being just in bed and he kneeling down to pray, when he heard a fox barking, and then some light footfalls under the window. He caught a glimpse, in the dusk, of what seemed to be the shapes of animals. The temptation was too strong, and he took down his quiver.

383TH E LEG E N D OF ST. J U LIAN TH E HOS P ITALLE R She showed surprise. “I do it to obey you,” he said; “I shall be back at sunrise.” Still, she was afraid of a disastrous venture. He reassured her and went out, surprised at her inconsistent mood. Soon afterwards a page came in to say that two strangers, as they could not see the absent lord, were asking instantly to see his lady. And soon there entered the room an old man and an old woman, bowed and dusty, dressed in rough linen, each leaning on a staff. Taking courage, they said that they were bringing Julian news of his parents. She leaned out of bed to listen. But, having first exchanged a look, they asked her if he was still fond of them, and if he spoke of them at times. “Ah, yes!” she said. “Well, we are they!” they cried, and, being very weary and spent with fatigue, sat down. The young wife felt no assurance that her husband was their son, but they proved it by describing some particular marks on his skin. Then she leaped out of bed, called the page, and a repast was served to them. They could scarcely eat, though they were very hungry; she observed, aside, how their bony hands trembled as they grasped the cups. They asked countless questions about Julian, and she answered all, but took care not to speak of the ghastly fancy in which they were concerned. After waiting in vain for his return they had left their castle, and they had been travelling for several years after vague clues, without losing hope. So much money had been swallowed up by river tolls and inns, the dues of princes and demands of thieves that their purse was emptied to the bottom, and now they begged their way. But what of that, when they would soon embrace their son? They extolled his happiness to have so fair a wife, and could not have enough of watching her and kissing her. They were much astonished by the richness of the room, and the old man, after examing its walls, asked why the Emperor of Occitania’s coat of arms was there. “He is my father,” she replied. At that he started, remembering the gipsy’s prophecy, while the old woman thought of the hermit’s words. Doubtless their son’s glory was but the dawn of an eternal splendour; and they both sat open-mouthed under the light of the great candlestick upon the table. They must have been very handsome in their youth. The mother had

384 Gustave Flaubert kept all her hair, and its fine plaits hung to the bottom of her cheeks like drifts of snow. The father, with his height and his great beard, was like a statue in a church. Julian’s wife persuaded them not to wait for him. With her own hands she placed them in her bed, then shut the window, and they went to sleep. Daybreak was near, and little birds were beginning to sing outside. Julian had crossed the park and walked through the forest with a springing step, enjoying the soft turf and mild night air. Shadows fell from the trees across the moss. From time to time the moonlight made white patches in the drives and he hesitated to go forward, thinking he saw a pool; or, again, the surface of the still ponds would itself be lost in the colour of the grass. There was a deep silence everywhere, and he found no trace of the animals which a few minutes earlier had been straying round his castle. The wood thickened and grew profoundly dark. Puffs of warm air went by him, with relaxing scents. His feet sank among dead leaves, and he leaned against an oak to breathe a little. Suddenly, from behind his back, a darker mass leaped out. It was a wild boar. Julian had no time to snatch his bow, and was as vexed as though it was a disaster. Then, when he had left the wood, he saw a wolf stealing along a hedge. Julian sent an arrow after it. The wolf paused, turned round to look at him, and went on again. It trotted on, always at the same distance, stopping from time to time, and taking flight again as soon as Julian aimed. In this way Julian went over an endless plain and a tract of sand-hills, and came out upon high ground which looked over a great breadth of country. Flat stones lay scattered on it from ruined vaults all round. His feet stumbled on dead bones, and in places there were worm-eaten crosses leaning mournfully askew. But forms stirred in the dim shadow of the tombs; and hyenas rose out of them, scared and panting. Their hoofs clattered on the pave-stones as they came up to Julian, sniffing at him and showing their gums with a yawn. When he drew his sword they went off at once in all directions, with a headlong, limping gallop which lasted till they vanished in the distance under a cloud of dust. An hour later he met a savage bull in a ravine, lowering its horns and ploughing the sand up with its foot. Julian thrust with his lance at it under the dewlap. The lance was shivered, as though the animal were made of bronze; he closed his eyes, expecting to be killed. When he reopened them the bull had disappeared.

385TH E LEG E N D OF ST. J U LIAN TH E HOS P ITALLE R Then his heart sank for shame. A higher power was bringing his strength to nought, and he went back into the forest to regain his home. The forest was tangled with creepers; and as he was cutting them with his sword a marten slipped sharply between his legs, a panther made a bound over his shoulder, and a snake wound its way up an ash tree. A huge jackdaw looked down at Julian out of its leaves, and on every side among the branches appeared a multitude of great sparks, as though the firmament had showered all its stars into the forest. They were eyes of animals—wild cats, squirrels, owls, parrots, monkeys. Julian darted his arrows at them; the feathered shafts settled on the leaves like white butterflies. He threw stones at them, and the stones fell back without touching anything. He cursed, wanted to fight, shouted imprecations, and choked with rage. And all the animals which he had been hunting appeared again and made a narrow circle round him. Some sat upon their haunches, others stood erect. He was rooted in the middle, frozen with terror, and impotent to move at all. With a supreme effort of will he took a step; the creatures on the branches spread their wings, those on the ground stretched their limbs, and all went on with him. The hyenas walked in front, the wolf and the boar behind. The bull was on his right, swaying its head, while on his left the serpent wound through the grass and the panther arched its back and advanced with long, velvet-footed strides. He walked as slowly as he could to avoid irritating them; and as he went he saw porcupines, foxes, vipers, jackals, and bears come out of the dense undergrowth. Julian began to run; they ran too. The serpent hissed, and the stinking creatures slavered. The wild boar’s tusks prodded his heels, and the wolf rubbed the palms of his hands with his hairy muzzle. The monkeys pinched him and made faces, and the marten rolled over his feet. A bear swung its paw back and knocked his hat off, and the panther, which had been carrying an arrow in its mouth, let it fall in disdain. Their sly movements gave peeps of irony. As they watched him out of the corner of their eyes they seemed to be meditating a plan of revenge; while he, deafened by the buzzing insects, lashed by the birds’ tails, and smothered by the breath of the animals, walked with arms out-stretched and eyes shut like a blind man, without even having strength to cry for mercy. A cock-crow rang in the air, and others answered. It was day, and he recognized his palace roof beyond the orange-trees. Then at the edge of a field he saw, three paces off him, some red partridges fluttering in the stubble. He unfastened his cloak and threw

386 Gustave Flaubert it over them as a net. When he uncovered them he found but one, long dead and rotten. This deception infuriated him more than all the others. His thirst to kill swept over him again, and for want of beasts he would gladly have slain men. He climbed the three terraces and burst open the door with a blow of his fist; but when he reached the staircase his heart unbent at the thought of his dear wife. She was asleep, doubtless, and he would take her by surprise. He drew off his sandals, turned the lock gently, and went in. The pale dawn came dimly through the leaded window-panes. Julian’s feet caught in clothes lying on the floor; a little farther, and he knocked against a buffet still laden with plate. “Her supper, doubtless,” he said to himself, and went on towards the bed, which he could not see in the darkness at the end of the room. He came close, and to kiss his wife bent down over the pillow where the two heads were lying side by side. Then he felt the touch of a beard against his mouth. He drew back, thinking he was going mad, but came near the bed again, and as he felt about with his fingers they encountered long tresses of hair. To convince himself that he was wrong he passed his hand again slowly over the pillow. It was really a beard this time, and a man—a man lying with his wife! In a fit of boundless fury he leaped on them, striking with his dagger; he stamped and foamed, roaring like a wild beast. Then he stopped. The dead folk, pierced to the heart, had not so much as stirred. He listened closely to their dying groans, which almost kept time together; and as they grew feebler another, in the far distance, took them up. Vague at first, this plaintive, long-drawn voice came nearer, swelled, rang cruelly; and he recognized in terror the belling of the great black stag. And as he turned round he thought he saw his wife’s ghost framed in the doorway, with a light in her hand. The noise of the murder had drawn her there. In one wide glance she grasped it all, and fled in horror, dropping her torch. He picked it up. His father and mother lay before him, stretched on their backs, with breasts pierced through; and their faces, in a gentle majesty, looked as though they were keeping a secret for ever. Splashes and pools of blood showed on their white skin, over the bed-clothes and the floor, and trickled down an ivory crucifix in the alcove. The scarlet reflection from the window, which the sun was striking, lit up these red patches and cast others, more numerous still, all round the room. Julian walked towards

387TH E LEG E N D OF ST. J U LIAN TH E HOS P ITALLE R the two dead figures, saying to himself, and struggling to believe, that this thing could not be and that he was deceived by an error—by one of those resemblances which nothing can explain. Finally he bent down a little to look close at the old man, and saw between the unshut eyelids a glazed eye which scorched him like fire. Then he went to the other side of the couch where the other body lay, its white hair hiding part of the face. Julian passed his fingers under the plaits and lifted the head; and holding it at arm’s length with one hand, while in the other he held up the torch, he looked at it. Drops of blood were oozing from the mattress and falling one by one upon the floor. At the end of the day he came into his wife’s presence; and in a voice not his own bade her first of all not to answer him, come near him, or even look at him. Under pain of damnation she must follow all his orders, which would not be gainsaid. The funerals must be carried out according to injunctions which he had left in writing, on a prie-dieu in the chamber of the dead. He ceded to her his palace, his vassals, and all his possessions, not excepting even his clothes or his sandals, which would be found at the head of the stairs. She had obeyed God’s will in making the occasion of his crime, and she must pray for his soul, since from that day he ceased to exist. The dead were sumptuously buried in an abbey church at three days’ journey from the castle. A monk in shrouded hood followed the procession at a distance from the others, and no one dared to speak to him. He remained while the mass lasted, lying flat in the middle of the porch, with his arms making the form of a cross and his forehead in the dust. After the burial he was seen to take the road leading to the mountains. He turned to look round several times, and finally disappeared. He went onwards, begging his way throughout the world. He held out his hand to the riders on the high roads and bent his knee when he approached the reapers. Or he would stand motionless before the gates of court-yards, and his face was so sad that he was never refused alms. In a spirit of humbleness he would tell his story; and then all fled from him, making the sign of the cross. In the villages which he had passed through before, the people, as soon as they recognized him, shut their doors, shouted abuse at him, threw stones at him. The most charitable of them placed a bowl on their window-sills and then closed the shutters so as not to see him. Being repulsed everywhere, he shunned mankind, and fed on roots,

388 Gustave Flaubert plants, wayside fruit, and shell-fish which he gathered along the beaches. Sometimes, at the turn of a hill-side, he saw a jumble of crowded roofs under his eyes, with stone spires, bridges, towers, and a network of dark streets, from which a ceaseless hum rose up to him. A need to mingle with the life of others would draw him down into the town. But the brutal look in their faces, their noisy crafts and callous words made his heart freeze. On festal days, when the great cathedral bells tuned the whole populace to joy from daybreak, he watched the folk issuing from their houses, and the dancing in public spaces, the beer fountains at the crossways, the damask hung before the lodgings of princes; and then at evening, through the lower windows, the long family tables where grandparents dandled little children on their knees. Sobs choked him, and he turned away towards the country. He had thrills of love as he gazed at young horses in the meadows, birds in their nests, and insects on the flowers; all, at his approach, ran farther off, hid in terror, or flew swiftly away. He sought deserted places. But the wind grated on his ear like the rattle of a death-agony; the dewdrops falling to the ground brought other, heavier drops to mind. Every evening the sun tinged the clouds blood- red, and each night the murder of his parents began again in dreams. He made himself a hair shirt with iron spikes, and climbed on his knees up every hill which had a chapel at the top. But his pitiless thought dimmed the radiance of the shrines, and stung him even in his acts of mortification. He did not rebel against God for having brought the deed upon him, and yet the idea that he could have done it made him despair. His own person filled him with such horror that in the hope of release he risked it among dangers. He saved the paralysed from fires and children from the bottom of chasms. The abyss cast him up; the flames spared him. Time brought no relief to his suffering. It became intolerable, and he resolved to die. And one day when he was by a spring, leaning over it to judge the water’s depth, he saw opposite him on a sudden an emaciated old man, with a white beard and a look so dolorous that Julian could not keep back his tears. The other wept also. Without recognizing him exactly, Julian had a confused memory of a face like his. He uttered a cry; it was his father; and he thought no more of killing himself. So with the burden of his recollections he travelled many lands, and came one day to a river, which, owing to its violence and a great stretch of slime along its banks, was dangerous to cross. No one for a long time had dared to make the passage.

389TH E LEG E N D OF ST. J U LIAN TH E HOS P ITALLE R An old boat, whose stern had been embedded, lifted its prow among the reeds. Julian examined it and found a pair of oars; and the thought came to him that he might use his life in the service of others. He began by making a sort of roadway on the bank to lead down to the channel of the river; and he broke his nails in moving enormous stones, propped them against his waist to carry them, slipped in the mud and sank there, and nearly perished several times. Then he repaired the boat with pieces of wreckage, and made a hut for himself out of clay and tree-trunks. The ferry came to be heard of and travellers appeared. They waved flags and hailed him from the other side, and Julian at once jumped into his boat. It was very heavy, and they overweighted it with baggage and loads of all kinds, without counting the beasts of burden, who made the crowding worse by kicking in alarm. He asked nothing for his labour; some of the passengers gave him remnants of food out of their wallets or worn-out clothes which they had no more use for. The brutal ones shouted blasphemies. Julian reproved them gently, and they retorted with abuse. He was content to bless them. A little table, a stool, a bed of dry leaves, and three clay cups—that was the whole of his furniture. Two holes in the wall served for windows. On one side barren plains stretched away out of view, dotted with pale meres here and there; and in front of him the great river rolled its greenish waters. In spring the damp soil breathed an odour of decay. Then came a riotous wind that lifted the dust and whirled it. It found its way in everywhere, muddying the water and grating in the mouth. A little later there were clouds of mosquitoes, which pinged and pricked without ceasing day and night. And then came on appalling frosts which turned everything to the hardness of stone and roused a wild craving to eat meat. Months glided by when Julian did not see a soul. Often he closed his eyes and tried to revive his youth in memory. The court-yard of a castle would rise before him, with greyhounds on a flight of steps, grooms in the armoury, and a fair-haired boy under a vine trellis between an old man dressed in furs and a lady wearing a great coif. Suddenly, the two corpses were there. He threw himself face downwards on his bed and kept murmuring with tears: “Ah, poor father! Poor mother, poor mother!”—and fell into a drowsiness through which the mournful visions still went on. When he was asleep one night he thought he heard someone calling him. He strained his ears and made out nothing except the roar of the water.

390 Gustave Flaubert But the same voice cried again: “Julian!” It came from the other bank, which amazed him, considering the breadth of the river. A third time he was hailed: “Julian!” And the loud voice had the tone of a church bell. Julian lit his lantern and went out of the hovel. A wild hurricane was sweeping through the night. There was an intense darkness, pierced now and then by the whiteness of the leaping waves. After a moment’s hesitation Julian unfastened his moorings. The water instantly became calm, and the boat glided over it to the other bank, where a man stood waiting. He was wrapped in a tattered cloth and his face was like a plaster mask, with eyes redder than coals. Holding the lantern to him, Julian saw that he was covered with a hideous leprosy; yet there was something of a royal majesty in his posture. As soon as he entered the boat it sank prodigiously, overwhelmed by his weight. It rose again with a shake, and Julian began to row. At every stroke the surf tossed the boat up by its bows. The water, blacker than ink, ran furiously against the planks on both sides. It hollowed into gulfs and rose into mountains, which the boat leaped over, only to fall back into the depths, where it spun round at the mercy of the wind. Julian bent low, stretched his arms out, and propping himself against his feet swung back with a twist to get more power. The hail lashed his hands, the rain streamed down his back, he could not breathe in the fierce wind, and stopped. Then the boat drifted and was carried away. But feeling that there was a great matter at stake, an order which might not be disobeyed, he took up the oars again, and the clacking of the thole-pins cut through the stormy clamour. The little lantern burned in front of him. Birds hid it from time to time as they fluttered by. But he always saw the eyes of the Leper, who stood, motionless as a pillar, at the stern. It went on long, very long. When at last they had entered the hovel Julian shut the door; and he saw the Leper sitting on the stool. The kind of shroud which covered him had fallen to his hips; and his shoulders, chest, and wizened arms were hardly to be seen for the scaly pustules which coated them. Immense wrinkles furrowed his brow. He had a hole in place of a nose, like a skeleton, and his bluish lips exhaled a breath as thick as fog, and nauseous.

391TH E LEG E N D OF ST. J U LIAN TH E HOS P ITALLE R “I am hungry!” he said. Julian gave him what he had, an old piece of bacon and the crust of a black loaf. When he had devoured them, the table, the dish, and the handle of the knife bore the same spots that could be seen on his body. Next he said, “I am thirsty!” Julian went to get his pitcher, and it gave out an aroma, as he took it, which enlarged his heart and nostrils. It was wine—what happiness! But the Leper put out his arm and emptied the whole pitcher at a draught. Then he said, “I am cold!” And Julian, with his candle, set light to a pile of bracken in the middle of the hut. The Leper came to warm himself, and as he crouched on his heels he trembled in every limb and weakened. His eyes ceased to gleam, his sores ran, and in an almost lifeless voice he murmured: “Thy bed!” Julian helped him gently to drag himself there, and even spread the canvas of his boat over him as a covering. The Leper groaned. His teeth showed at the corners of his mouth, a faster rattle shook his chest, and as each breath was taken his body hollowed to the backbone. Then he shut his eyes. “It is like ice in my bones! Come close to me!” And Julian, lifting the cloth, lay down on the dead leaves side by side with him. The Leper turned his head. “Take off thy clothes, that I may have thy body’s warmth!” Julian took off his clothes and lay down on the bed again, naked as when he was born; and he felt the Leper’s skin against his thigh, colder than a serpent and rough as a file. He tried to hearten him, and the other answered in gasps: “Ah, I am dying! Come closer, warm me! Not with the hands; no, with thy whole body!” Julian stretched himself completely over him, mouth to mouth and chest on chest. Then the Leper clasped him, and his eyes suddenly became as bright as stars; his hair drew out like sunbeams; the breath of his nostrils was as sweet as roses; a cloud of incense rose from the hearth, and the waves began to sing. Meanwhile an abundance of delight, a superhuman joy flooded into Julian’s soul as he lay swooning; and he who still clasped him in his arms grew taller, ever taller, until his head and feet touched the

392 Gustave Flaubert two walls of the hut. The roof flew off, the firmament unrolled—and Julian rose towards the blue spaces, face to face with Our Lord Jesus, who carried him to heaven. And that is the story of St. Julian the Hospitaller, more or less as you will find it on a church-window in the region where I live. The foregoing story is from Flaubert’s THRE E TALES, translated by Arthur McDowall.

393 F. Scott Fitzgerald 1896–1940 Francis Scott Key Fitzgerald was born in St. Paul, Minnesota, onSeptember 24, 1896. He attended the Newman School and entered Princeton University in the class of 1917. In 1917–19 he served as a lieutenant in the army but did not get to France. He wrote advertising copy in New York and went back to St. Paul to rewrite his first novel, This Side of Paradise, published in 1920. At one stroke it made him the prophet and golden boy of the beginning Jazz Age. In April of the same year he married Zelda Sayre of Montgomery, Alabama. They lived in New York City and Westport, Connecticut, made a first foray to Europe, and returned to St. Paul. There Fitzgerald finished a second novel, The Beautiful and the Damned. This appeared in 1922, between two collections of stories: Flappers and Philosophers and Tales of the Jazz Age. During this period he was also working on a satiric play, The Vegetable. It was tried out on the road but never reached Broadway. In 1922 he rented a house at Great Neck, Long Island. It became a weekend resort for New York party goers. Between November and April, Fitzgerald wrote himself out of debt with eleven short stories. In Great Neck and in St. Raphaël, France, he took up the short novel he had begun a year or two before. This was The Great Gatsby, finished in late 1924 and published in April of the next year. A third book of stories, All the Sad Young Men, came out in 1926. While the 1920’s moved to their disastrous close, Fitzgerald traveled back and forth between Paris, Hollywood, Wilmington, and Cap d’Antibes, France. In 1934, after several false starts, he produced his second important novel, Tender Is the Night. The stories in Taps at Reveille appeared the following year. He suffered from a drinking habit traceable, in part at least, to a condition diagnosed as

394 F. Scott Fitzgerald hyperinsulinism. He died in Hollywood on December 21, 1940. After Fitzgerald’s death, his friend Edmund Wilson edited two supplements to his work: The Last Tycoon, an unfinished novel, and a miscellany called The Crack-Up. The Diamond as Big as the Ritz belongs to Fitzgerald’s first period. The setting appears to derive from a 1915 vacation visit to the opulent ranch of his friend Charles W. (“Sap”) Donahoe at White Sulphur Springs, Montana. But the story of a secret and impossibly rich never-never land in the mountains is an old western American legend; and the detail of diamonds picked up from the ground recalls the Great Diamond Hoax that amused San Francisco in the late nineteenth century. Fitzgerald wrote the story in a downtown office in St. Paul. It came out in Smart Set magazine for June, 1922, and was reprinted that same year in Tales of the Jazz Age. It is, first of all, a good story, told with verve and a kind of gleeful ingenuity. Beyond that, it suggests many things, and one thing in particular. What do we notice first? We say to ourselves that this is the burlesque satire of the 1920’s, a satire based on wild exaggeration of the typical and familiar. H. L. Mencken set the tone in his magazines. We catch it in Elmer Gantry, and even in some of the dialogues in Hemingway’s The Sun Also Rises. What does Fitzgerald do with it? We observe that the name of John T. Unger’s home town is Hades. (Every American small town was by definition “Hades” in the 1920’s.) There are vaudeville jokes about it. A “Rolls-Pierce” automobile is mentioned (Rolls-Royce and the now extinct Pierce-Arrow). The word “Ritz” occurs in the title. (The Ritz-Carlton Hotel in New York, classic symbol of luxury in the 1920’s, has long since fallen under the wrecker’s ball.) But it does not escape us that “St. Midas’ School” or its equivalent still exists, and that middle western boys are still sent to it; that the Ritz has been replaced by vaster and chillier luxury hotels, whose good Notes from the artist: “. . . characters of the ‘Newport set’ of the 1920’s and a drawing technique popular in those years were used in the portrait of Fitzgerald. The author as a boy of eight is at the lower right.”

395TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ

396 F. Scott Fitzgerald taste is far more in doubt; or that the suburban Hades has inherited most of the faults and few of the virtues of the small-town one. So we move in toward the center of Fitzgerald’s story. What does he mean by that symbol of his, that tyrannical utopia lost in the American mountains? What are we to make of this Arabian Nights domain where every luxury is blown up into something monstrously absurd, where the slaves have never been freed, where a young girl collects rhinestones because diamonds bore her? And who is Braddock Washington? Is he only the last of the nineteenth- century robber barons, living beyond his time? Or is he a kind of Hitler before his time, preparing his own Götterdämmerung? For Fitzgerald, we may suspect, he was neither. Washington is the barbarous extreme of a figure that he would come back to time after time, in the Tom Buchanan of The Great Gatsby, in the Warren family of Tender Is the Night, and in a dozen other stories. He is the man of great wealth whose wealth may be turned into a kind of social privilege that makes possible the fullest kind of good life or the most arrogantly inhuman evil. In Washington it creates a monster who claims the right to murder his guests and bribe God.

397 The Diamond as Big as the Ritz ohn T. Unger came from a family that had been well known in Hades—a small town on the Mississippi River—for several generations. John’s father had held the amateur golf championship through many a heated contest; Mrs. Unger was known “from hot-box to hot-bed,” as the local phrase went, for her political addresses; and young John T. Unger, who had just turned sixteen, had danced all the latest dances from New York before he put on long trousers. And now, for a certain time, he was to be away from home. That respect for a New England education which is the bane of all provincial places, which drains them yearly of their most promising young men, had seized upon his parents. Nothing would suit them but that he should go to St. Midas’ School near Boston—Hades was too small to hold their darling and gifted son. Now in Hades—as you know if you ever have been there—the names of the more fashionable preparatory schools and colleges mean very little. The inhabitants have been so long out of the world that, though they make a show of keeping up to date in dress and manners and literature, they depend to a great extent on hearsay, and a function that in Hades would be considered elaborate would doubtless be hailed by a Chicago beef princess as “perhaps a little tacky.” John T. Unger was on the eve of departure. Mrs. Unger, with maternal fatuity, packed his trunks full of linen suits and electric fans, and Mr. Unger presented his son with an asbestos pocketbook stuffed with money. “Remember, you are always welcome here,” he said. “You can be sure, boy, that we’ll keep the home fires burning.” “I know,” answered John huskily. “Don’t forget who you are and where you come from,” continued his

398 F. Scott Fitzgerald father proudly, “and you can do nothing to harm you. You are an Unger— from Hades.” So the old man and the young shook hands and John walked away with tears streaming from his eyes. Ten minutes later he had passed outside the city limits, and he stopped to glance back for the last time. Over the gates the old-fashioned Victorian motto seemed strangely attractive to him. His father had tried time and time again to have it changed to something with a little more push and verve about it, such as “Hades—Your Opportunity,” or else a plain “Welcome” sign set over a hearty handshake pricked out in electric lights. The old motto was a little depressing, Mr. Unger had thought—but now. . . . So John took his look and then set his face resolutely toward his destination. And, as he turned away, the lights of Hades against the sky seemed full of a warm and passionate beauty. St. Midas’ School is half an hour from Boston in a Rolls-Pierce motorcar. The actual distance will never be known, for no one, except John T. Unger, had ever arrived there save in a Rolls-Pierce and probably no one ever will again. St. Midas’ is the most expensive and the most exclusive boys’ preparatory school in the world. John’s first two years there passed pleasantly. The fathers of all the boys were money-kings and John spent his summers visiting at fashionable resorts. While he was very fond of all the boys he visited, their fathers struck him as being much of a piece, and in his boyish way he often wondered at their exceeding sameness. When he told them where his home was they would ask jovially, “Pretty hot down there?” and John would muster a faint smile and answer, “It certainly is.” His response would have been heartier had they not all made this joke—at best varying it with, “Is it hot enough for you down there?” which he hated just as much. In the middle of his second year at school, a quiet, handsome boy named Percy Washington had been put in John’s form. The newcomer was pleasant in his manner and exceedingly well dressed even for St. Midas’, but for some reason he kept aloof from the other boys. The only person with whom he was intimate was John T. Unger, but even to John he was entirely uncommunicative concerning his home or his family. That he was wealthy went without saying, but beyond a few such deductions John knew little of his friend, so it promised rich confectionery for his curiosity when Percy invited him to spend the summer at his home “in the West.” He accepted, without hesitation. It was only when they were in the train that Percy became, for the first

399TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ time, rather communicative. One day while they were eating lunch in the dining car and discussing the imperfect characters of several of the boys at school, Percy suddenly changed his tone and made an abrupt remark. “My father,” he said, “is by far the richest man in the world.” “Oh,” said John, politely. He could think of no answer to make to this confidence. He considered “That’s very nice,” but it sounded hollow and was on the point of saying, “Really?” but refrained since it would seem to question Percy’s statement. And such an astounding statement could scarcely be questioned. “By far the richest,” repeated Percy. “I was reading in the World Almanac,” began John, “that there was one man in America with an income of over five million a year and four men with incomes of over three million a year, and—” “Oh, they’re nothing,” Percy’s mouth was a half-moon of scorn. “Catch- penny capitalists, financial small fry, petty merchants and moneylenders. My father could buy them out and not know he’d done it.” “But how does he—” “Why haven’t they put down his income tax? Because he doesn’t pay any. At least he pays a little one—but he doesn’t pay any on his real income.” “He must be very rich,” said John simply. “I’m glad. I like very rich people. “The richer a fella is, the better I like him.” There was a look of passionate frankness upon his dark face. “I visited the Schnlitzer-Murphys last Easter. Vivian Schnlitzer-Murphy had rubies as big as hen’s eggs, and sapphires that were like globes with lights inside them—” “I love jewels,” agreed Percy enthusiastically. “Of course I wouldn’t want anyone at school to know about it, but I’ve got quite a collection myself. I used to collect them instead of stamps.” “And diamonds,” continued John eagerly. “The Schnlitzer-Murphys had diamonds as big as walnuts—” “That’s nothing.” Percy had leaned forward and dropped his voice to a low whisper. “That’s nothing at all. My father has a diamond bigger than the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.” The Montana sunset lay between two mountains like a gigantic bruise from which dark arteries spread themselves over a poisoned sky. An immense distance under the sky crouched the village of Fish, minute, dismal, and forgotten. There were twelve men, so it was said, in the village

400 F. Scott Fitzgerald of Fish, twelve sombre and inexplicable souls who sucked a lean milk from the almost literally bare rock upon which a mysterious populatory force had begotten them. They had become a race apart, these twelve men of Fish, like some species developed by an early whim of nature, which on second thought had abandoned them to struggle and extermination. Out of the blue-black bruise in the distance crept a long line of moving lights upon the desolation of the land, and the twelve men of Fish gathered like ghosts at the shanty depot to watch the passing of the seven o’clock train, the Transcontinental Express from Chicago. Six times or so a year the Transcontinental Express, through some inconceivable jurisdiction, stopped at the village of Fish, and when this occurred a figure or so would disembark, mount into a buggy that always appeared from out of the dusk, and drive off toward the bruised sunset. The observation of this pointless and preposterous phenomenon had become a sort of cult among the men of Fish. To observe, that was all; there remained in them none of the vital quality of illusion which would make them wonder or speculate, else a religion might have grown up around these mysterious visitations. But the men of Fish were beyond all religion—the barest and most savage tenets of even Christianity could gain no foothold on that barren rock—so there was no altar, no priest, no sacrifice; only each night at seven the silent concourse by the shanty depot, a congregation who lifted up a prayer of dim, anaemic wonder. On this June night, the Great Brakeman, whom, had they deified anyone, they might well have chosen as their celestial protagonist, had ordained that the seven o’clock train should leave its human (or inhuman) deposit at Fish. At two minutes after seven Percy Washington and John T. Unger disembarked, hurried past the spellbound, the agape, the fearsome eyes of the twelve men of Fish, mounted into a buggy which had obviously appeared from nowhere, and drove away. After half an hour, when the twilight had coagulated into dark, the silent Negro who was driving the buggy hailed an opaque body some- where ahead of them in the gloom. In response to his cry, it turned upon them a luminous disk which regarded them like a malignant eye out of the unfathomable night. As they came closer, John saw that it was the taillight of an immense automobile, larger and more magnificent than any he had ever seen. Its body was of gleaming metal richer than nickel and lighter than silver, and the hubs of the wheels were studded with iridescent geometric figures of green and yellow—John did not dare to guess whether they were glass or jewel. Two Negroes, dressed in glittering livery such as one sees in pictures

401TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ of royal processions in London, were standing at attention beside the car and as the two young men dismounted from the buggy they were greeted in some language which the guest could not understand, but which seemed to be an extreme form of the Southern Negro’s dialect. “Get in,” said Percy to his friend, as their trunks were tossed to the ebony roof of the limousine. “Sorry we had to bring you this far in that buggy, but of course it wouldn’t do for the people on the train or those Godforsaken fellas in Fish to see this automobile.” “Gosh! What a car!” This ejaculation was provoked by its interior. John saw that the upholstery consisted of a thousand minute and exquisite tapestries of silk, woven with jewels and embroideries, and set upon a background of cloth of gold. The two armchair seats in which the boys luxuriated were covered with stuff that resembled duvetyn, but seemed woven in numberless colors of the ends of ostrich feathers. “What a car!” cried John again, in amazement. “This thing?” Percy laughed. “Why, it’s just an old junk we use for a station wagon.” By this time they were gliding along through the darkness toward the break between the two mountains. “We’ll be there in an hour and a half,” said Percy, looking at the clock. “I may as well tell you it’s not going to be like anything you ever saw before.” If the car was any indication of what John would see, he was prepared to be astonished indeed. The simple piety prevalent in Hades has the earnest worship of and respect for riches as the first article of its creed— had John felt otherwise than radiantly humble before them, his parents would have turned away in horror at the blasphemy. They had now reached and were entering the break between the two mountains and almost immediately the way became much rougher. “If the moon shone down here, you’d see that we’re in a big gulch,” said Percy, trying to peer out of the window. He spoke a few words into the mouthpiece and immediately the footman turned on a searchlight and swept the hillsides with an immense beam. “Rocky, you see. An ordinary car would be knocked to pieces in half an hour. In fact, it’d take a tank to navigate it unless you knew the way. You notice we’re going uphill now.” They were obviously ascending, and within a few minutes the car was crossing a high rise, where they caught a glimpse of a pale moon newly risen in the distance. The car stopped suddenly and several figures took shape out of the dark beside it—these were Negroes also. Again the two

402 F. Scott Fitzgerald young men were saluted in the same dimly recognizable dialect; then the Negroes set to work and four immense cables dangling from overhead were attached with hooks to the hubs of the great jeweled wheels. At a resounding “Hey-yah!” John felt the car being lifted slowly from the ground—up and up—clear of the tallest rocks on both sides—then higher, until he could see a wavy, moonlit valley stretched out before him in sharp contrast to the quagmire of rocks that they had just left. Only on one side was there still rock—and then suddenly there was no rock beside them or anywhere around. It was apparent that they had surmounted some immense knife-blade of stone, projecting perpendicularly into the air. In a moment they were going down again, and finally with a soft bump they were landed upon the smooth earth. “The worst is over,” said Percy, squinting out the window. “It’s only five miles from here, and our own road—tapestry brick—all the way. This belongs to us. This is where the United States ends, father says.” “Are we in Canada?” “We are not. We’re in the middle of the Montana Rockies. But you are now on the only five square miles of land in the country that’s never been surveyed.” “Why hasn’t it? Did they forget it?” “No,” said Percy, grinning, “they tried to do it three times. The first time my grandfather corrupted a whole department of the State survey; the second time he had the official maps of the United States tinkered with—that held them for fifteen years. The last time was harder. My father fixed it so that their compasses were in the strongest magnetic field ever artificially set up. He had a whole set of surveying instruments made with a slight defection that would allow for this territory not to appear, and he substituted them for the ones that were to be used. Then he had a river deflected and he had what looked like a village built upon its banks—so that they’d see it, and think it was a town ten miles farther up the valley. There’s only one thing my father’s afraid of,” he concluded, “only one thing in the world that could be used to find us out.” “What’s that?” Percy sank his voice to a whisper. “Airplanes,” he breathed. “We’ve got half a dozen antiaircraft guns and we’ve arranged it so far—but there’ve been a few deaths and a great many prisoners. Not that we mind that, you know, father and I, but it upsets mother and the girls, and there’s always the chance that some time we won’t be able to arrange it.”

403TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ Shreds and tatters of chinchilla, courtesy clouds in the green moon’s heaven, were passing the green moon like precious Eastern stuffs paraded for the inspection of some Tartar Khan. It seemed to John that it was day, and that he was looking at some lads sailing above him in the air, showering down tracts and patent medicine circulars, with their messages of hope for despairing, rockbound hamlets. It seemed to him that he could see them look down out of the clouds and stare—and stare at whatever there was to stare at in this place whither he was bound—What then? Were they induced to land by some insidious device there to be immured far from patent medicines and from tracts until the judgment day—or, should they fail to fall into the trap, did a quick puff of smoke and the sharp round of a splitting shell bring them dropping to earth— and “upset” Percy’s mother and sisters? John shook his head and the wraith of a hollow laugh issued silently from his parted lips. What desperate transaction lay hidden here? What a moral expedient of a bizarre Croesus? What terrible and golden mystery? . . . The chinchilla clouds had drifted past now and outside the Montana night was bright as day. The tapestry brick of the road was smooth to the tread of the great tires as they rounded a still, moonlit lake; they passed into darkness for a moment, a pine grove, pungent and cool, then they came out into a broad avenue of lawn and John’s exclamation of pleasure was simultaneous with Percy’s taciturn “We’re home.” Full in the light of the stars, an exquisite château rose from the borders of the lake, climbed in marble radiance half the height of an adjoining mountain, then melted in grace, in perfect symmetry, in translucent feminine languor, into the massed darkness of a forest of pine. The many towers, the slender tracery of the sloping parapets, the chiseled wonder of a thousand yellow windows with their oblongs and hectagons and triangles of golden light, the shattered softness of the intersecting planes of starshine and blue shade, all trembled on John’s spirit like a chord of music. On one of the towers, the tallest, the blackest at its base, an arrangement of exterior lights at the top made a sort of floating fairyland— and as John gazed up in warm enchantment the faint acciaccatura sound of violins drifted down in a rococo harmony that was like nothing he had ever heard before. Then in a moment the car stopped before wide, high marble steps around which the night air was fragrant with a host of flowers. At the top of the steps two great doors swung silently open and amber light flooded out upon the darkness, silhouetting the figure of an exquisite lady with black, high-piled hair, who held out her arms toward them.

404 F. Scott Fitzgerald “Mother,” Percy was saying, “this is my friend, John Unger, from Hades.” Afterward John remembered that first night as a daze of many colors, of quick sensory impressions, of music soft as a voice in love, and of the beauty of things, lights and shadows, and motions and faces. There was a white-haired man who stood drinking a many-hued cordial from a crystal thimble set on a golden stem. There was a girl with a flowery face, dressed like Titania with braided sapphires in her hair. There was a room where the solid, soft gold of the walls yielded to the pressure of his hand, and a room that was like a platonic conception of the ultimate prison—ceiling, floor, and all, it was lined with an unbroken mass of diamonds, diamonds of every size and shape, until, lit with tall violet lamps in the corners, it dazzled the eyes with a whiteness that could be compared only with itself, beyond human wish or dream. Through a maze of these rooms the two boys wandered. Sometimes the floor under their feet would flame in brilliant patterns from lighting below, patterns of barbaric clashing colors, of pastel delicacy, of sheer whiteness, or of subtle and intricate mosaic, surely from some mosque on the Adriatic Sea. Sometimes beneath layers of thick crystal he would see blue or green water swirling, inhabited by vivid fish and growths of rainbow foliage. Then they would be treading on furs of every texture and color or along corridors of palest ivory, unbroken as though carved complete from the gigantic tusks of dinosaurs extinct before the age of man. . . . Then a hazily remembered transition, and they were at dinner—where each plate was of two almost imperceptible layers of solid diamond between which was curiously worked a filigree of emerald design, a shaving sliced from green air. Music, plangent and unobtrusive, drifted down through far corridors—his chair, feathered and curved insidiously to his back, seemed to engulf and overpower him as he drank his first glass of port. He tried drowsily to answer a question that had been asked him, but the honeyed luxury that clasped his body added to the illusion of sleep—jewels, fabrics, wines, and metals blurred before his eyes into a sweet mist. . . . “Yes,” he replied with a polite effort, “it certainly is hot enough for me down there.” He managed to add a ghostly laugh; then, without movement, without resistance, he seemed to float off and away, leaving an iced dessert that was pink as a dream. . . . He fell asleep. When he awoke he knew that several hours had passed. He was in a

405TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ great quiet room with ebony walls and a dull illumination that was too faint, too subtle, to be called a light. His young host was standing over him. “You fell asleep at dinner,” Percy was saying. “I nearly did, too—it was such a treat to be comfortable again after this year of school. Servants undressed and bathed you while you were sleeping.” “Is this a bed or a cloud?” sighed John. “Percy, Percy—before you go, I want to apologize.” “For what?” “For doubting you when you said you had a diamond as big as the Ritz-Carlton Hotel.” Percy smiled. “I thought you didn’t believe me. It’s that mountain, you know.” “What mountain?” “The mountain the château rests on. It’s not very big for a mountain. But except about fifty feet of sod and gravel on top it’s solid diamond. One diamond, one cubic mile without a flaw. Aren’t you listening? Say—” But John T. Unger had again fallen asleep. Morning. As he awoke he perceived drowsily that the room had at the same moment become dense with sunlight. The ebony panels of one wall had slid aside on a sort of track, leaving his chamber half open to the day. A large Negro in a white uniform stood beside his bed. “Good-evening,” muttered John, summoning his brains from the wild places. “Good-morning, sir. Are you ready for your bath, sir? Oh, don’t get up—I’ll put you in, if you’ll just unbutton your pajamas—there. Thank you, sir.” John lay quietly as his pajamas were removed—he was amused and delighted; he expected to be lifted like a child by this black Gargantua who was tending him, but nothing of the sort happened; instead he felt the bed tilt up slowly on its side—he began to roll, startled at first, in the direction of the wall, but when he reached the wall its drapery gave way, and sliding two yards farther down a fleecy incline he plumped gently into water the same temperature as his body. He looked about him. The runway or rollway on which he had arrived had folded gently back into place. He had been projected into another chamber and was sitting in a sunken bath with his head just above the level of the floor. All about him, lining the walls of the room and the sides and bottom of the bath itself, was a blue, aquarium, and gazing

406 F. Scott Fitzgerald through the crystal surface on which he sat, he could see fish swimming among amber lights and even gliding without curiosity past his out- stretched toes, which were separated from them only by the thickness of the crystal. From overhead, sunlight came down through sea-green glass. “I suppose, sir, that you’d like hot rose water and soapsuds this morning, sir—and perhaps cold salt water to finish.” The Negro was standing beside him. “Yes,” agreed John, smiling inanely, “as you please.” Any idea of ordering this bath according to his own meagre standards of living would have been priggish and not a little wicked. The Negro pressed a button and a warm rain began to fall, apparently from overhead, but really, so John discovered after a moment, from a fountain arrangement near by. The water turned to a pale rose color and jets of liquid soap spurted into it from four miniature walrus heads at the corners of the bath. In a moment a dozen little paddle wheels, fixed to the sides, had churned the mixture into a radiant rainbow of pink foam which enveloped him softly with its delicious lightness, and burst in shining, rosy bubbles here and there about him. “Shall I turn on the moving-picture machine, sir?” suggested the Negro deferentially. “There’s a good one-reel comedy in this machine today, or I can put in a serious piece in a moment, if you prefer it.” “No, thanks,” answered John, politely but firmly. He was enjoying his bath too much to desire any distraction. But distraction came. In a moment he was listening intently to the sound of flutes from just outside, flutes dripping a melody that was like a waterfall, cool and green as the room itself, accompanying a frothy piccolo, in play more fragile than the lace of suds that covered and charmed him. After a cold salt-water bracer and a cold fresh finish, he stepped out into a fleecy robe, and upon a couch covered with the same material he was rubbed with oil, alcohol, and spice. Later he sat in a voluptuous chair while he was shaved and his hair was trimmed. “Mr. Percy is waiting in your sitting-room,” said the Negro, when these operations were finished. “My name is Gygsum, Mr. Unger, sir. I am to see to Mr. Unger every morning.” John walked out into the brisk sunshine of his living room, where he found breakfast waiting for him and Percy, gorgeous in white kid knickerbockers, smoking in an easy chair. This is a story of the Washington family as Percy sketched it for John during breakfast.

407TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ The father of the present Mr. Washington had been a Virginian, a direct descendant of George Washington, and Lord Baltimore. At the close of the Civil War he was a twenty-five-year-old Colonel with a played-out plantation and about a thousand dollars in gold. Fitz-Norman Culpepper Washington, for that was the young Colonel’s name, decided to present the Virginia estate to his younger brother and go West. He selected two dozen of the most faithful blacks, who, of course, worshipped him, and bought twenty-five tickets to the West, where he intended to take out land in their names and start a sheep and cattle ranch. When he had been in Montana for less than a month and things were going very poorly indeed, he stumbled on his great discovery. He had lost his way when riding in the hills, and after a day without food he began to grow hungry. As he was without his rifle, he was forced to pursue a squirrel, and in the course of the pursuit he noticed that it was carrying something shiny in its mouth. Just before it vanished into its hole—for Providence did not intend that this squirrel should alleviate his hunger—it dropped its burden. Sitting down to consider the situation Fitz-Norman’s eye was caught by a gleam in the grass beside him. In ten seconds he had completely lost his appetite and gained one hundred thousand dollars. The squirrel, which had refused with annoying persistence to become food, had made him a present of a large and perfect diamond. Late that night he found his way to camp and twelve hours later all the males among his darkies were back by the squirrel hole digging furiously at the side of the mountain. He told them he had discovered a rhinestone mine, and, as only one or two of them had ever seen even a small diamond before, they believed him, without question. When the magnitude of his discovery became apparent to him, he found himself in a quandary. The mountain was a diamond—it was literally nothing else but solid diamond. He filled four saddle bags full of glittering samples and started on horseback for St. Paul. There he managed to dispose of half a dozen small stones—when he tried a larger one a storekeeper fainted and Fitz-Norman was arrested as a public disturber. He escaped from jail and caught the train for New York, where he sold a few medium-sized diamonds and received in exchange about two hundred thousand dollars in gold. But he did not dare to produce any exceptional gems—in fact, he left New York just in time. Tremendous excitement had been created in jewelry circles, not so much by the size of his diamonds as by their appearance in the city from mysterious sources. Wild rumors became current that a diamond mine had been discovered in the Cats-

408 F. Scott Fitzgerald kills, on the Jersey coast, on Long Island, beneath Washington Square. Excursion trains packed with men carrying picks and shovels began to leave New York hourly, bound for various neighboring El Dorados. But by that time young Fitz-Norman was on his way back to Montana. By the end of a fortnight he had estimated that the diamond in the mountain was approximately equal in quantity to all the rest of the diamonds known to exist in the world. There was no valuing it by any regular computation, however, for it was one solid diamond—and if it were offered for sale not only would the bottom fall out of the market, but also, if the value should vary with its size in the usual arithmetical progression, there would not be enough gold in the world to buy a tenth part of it. And what could any one do with a diamond that size? It was an amazing predicament. He was, in one sense, the richest man that ever lived—and yet was he worth anything at all? If his secret should transpire there was no telling to what measures the government might resort in order to prevent a panic, in gold as well as in jewels. They might take over the claim immediately and institute a monopoly. There was no alternative—he must market his mountain in secret. He sent South for his younger brother and put him in charge of his colored following—darkies who had never realized that slavery was abolished. To make sure of this, he read them a proclamation that he had composed, which announced that General Forrest had reorganized the shattered Southern armies and defeated the North in one pitched battle. The Negroes believed him implicitly. They passed a vote declaring it a good thing and held revival services immediately. Fitz-Norman himself set out for foreign parts with one hundred thousand dollars and two trunks filled with rough diamonds of all sizes. He sailed for Russia in a Chinese junk and six months after his departure from Montana he was in St. Petersburg. He took obscure lodgings and called immediately upon the court jeweler, announcing that he had a diamond for the Czar. He remained in St. Petersburg for two weeks, in constant danger of being murdered, living from lodging to lodging, and afraid to visit his trunks more than three or four times during the whole fortnight. On his promise to return in a year with larger and finer stones, he was allowed to leave for India. Before he left, however, the Court Treasurers had deposited to his credit, in American banks, the sum of fifteen million dollars—under four different aliases. He returned to America in 1868, having been gone a little over two years. He had visited the capitals of twenty-two countries and talked with

409TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ five emperors, eleven kings, three princes, a shah, a khan, and a sultan. At that time Fitz-Norman estimated his own wealth at one billion dollars. One fact worked consistently against the disclosure of his secret. No one of his larger diamonds remained in the public eye for a week before being invested with a history of enough fatalities, amours, revolutions, and wars to have occupied it from the days of the first Babylonian Empire. From 1870 until his death in 1900, the history of Fitz-Norman Washington was a long epic in gold. There were side issues, of course—he evaded the surveys, he married a Virginia lady, by whom he had a single son, and he was compelled, due to a series of unfortunate complications, to murder his brother, whose unfortunate habit of drinking himself into an indiscreet stupor had several times endangered their safety. But very few other murders stained these happy years of progress and expansion. Just before he died he changed his policy, and with all but a few million dollars of his outside wealth bought up rare minerals in bulk, which he deposited in the safety vaults of banks all over the world, marked as bric- a-brac. His son, Braddock Tarleton Washington, followed this policy on an even more extensive scale. The minerals were converted into the rarest of all elements—radium—so that the equivalent of a billion dollars in gold could be placed in a receptacle no bigger than a cigar box. When Fitz-Norman had been dead three years his son, Braddock, decided that the business had gone far enough. The amount of wealth that he and his father had taken out of the mountain was beyond all exact computation. He kept a notebook in cipher in which he set down the approximate quantity of radium in each of the thousand banks he patronized, and recorded the alias under which it was held. Then he did a very simple thing—he sealed up the mine. He sealed up the mine. What had been taken out of it would support all the Washingtons yet to be born in unparalleled luxury for generations. His one care must be the protection of his secret, lest in the possible panic attendant on its discovery he should be reduced with all the property-holders in the world to utter poverty. This was the family among whom John T. Unger was staying. This was the story he heard in his silver-walled living room the morning after his arrival. After breakfast, John found his way out the great marble entrance, and looked curiously at the scene before him. The whole valley, from the diamond mountain to the steep granite cliff five miles away, still gave off a breath of golden haze which hovered idly above the fine sweep of lawns

410 F. Scott Fitzgerald and lakes and gardens. Here and there clusters of elms made delicate groves of shade, contrasting strangely with the tough masses of pine forest that held the hills in a grip of dark-blue green. Even as John looked he saw three fawns in single file patter out from one clump about a half mile away and disappear with awkward gayety into the black-ribbed half- light of another. John would not have been surprised to see a goat foot piping his way among the trees or to catch a glimpse of pink nymph skin and flying yellow hair between the greenest of the green leaves. In some such cool hope he descended the marble steps, disturbing faintly the sleep of two silky Russian wolfhounds at the bottom, and set off along a walk of white and blue brick that seemed to lead in no particular direction. He was enjoying himself as much as he was able. It is youth’s felicity as well as its insufficiency that it can never live in the present, but must always be measuring up the day against its own radiantly imagined future—flowers and gold, girls and stars, they are only prefigurations and prophecies of that incomparable, unattainable young dream. John rounded a soft corner where the massed rosebushes filled the air with heavy scent, and struck off across a park toward a patch of moss under some trees. He had never lain upon moss, and he wanted to see whether it was really soft enough to justify the use of its name as an adjective. Then he saw a girl coming toward him over the grass. She was the most beautiful person he had ever seen. She was dressed in a white little gown that came just below her knees, and a wreath of mignonettes clasped with blue slices of sapphire bound up her hair. Her pink bare feet scattered the dew before them as she came. She was younger than John—not more than sixteen. “Hello,” she cried softly, “I’m Kismine.” She was much more than that to John already. He advanced toward her, scarcely moving as he drew near lest he should tread on her bare toes. “You haven’t met me,” said her soft voice. Her blue eyes added, “Oh, but you’ve missed a great deal!”. . . “You met my sister, Jasmine, last night, I was sick with lettuce poisoning,” went on her soft voice, and her eyes continued, “and when I’m sick I’m sweet—and when I’m well.” “You have made an enormous impression on me,” said John’s eyes, “and I’m not so slow myself”—“How do you do?” said his voice. “I hope you’re better this morning.”—“You darling,” added his eyes tremulously. John observed that they had been walking along the path. On her sug-

411TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ gestion they sat down together upon the moss, the softness of which he failed to determine. He was critical about women. A single defect—a thick ankle, a hoarse voice, a glass eye—was enough to make him utterly indifferent. And here for the first time in his life he was beside a girl who seemed to him the incarnation of physical perfection. “Are you from the East?” asked Kismine with charming interest. “No,” answered John simply. “I’m from Hades.” Either she had never heard of Hades, or she could think of no pleasant comment to make upon it, for she did not discuss it further. “I’m going East to school this fall,” she said. “D’you think I’ll make it? I’m going to New York to Miss Bulge’s. It’s very strict, but you see over the weekends I’m going to live at home with the family in our New York house, because father heard that the girls had to go walking two by two.” “Your father wants you to be proud,” observed John. “We are,” she answered, her eyes shining with dignity. “None of us has ever been punished. Father said we never should be. Once when my sister Jasmine was a little girl she pushed him down-stairs and he just got up and limped away. “Mother was—well, a little startled,” continued Kismine, “when she heard that you were from—from where you are from, you know. She said that when she was a young girl—but then, you see, she’s a Spaniard and old-fashioned.” “Do you spend much time out here?” asked John, to conceal the fact that he was somewhat hurt by this remark. It seemed an unkind allusion to his provincialism. “Percy and Jasmine and I are here every summer, but next summer Jasmine is going to Newport. She’s coming out in London a year from this fall. She’ll be presented at court.” “Do you know,” began John hesitantly, “you’re much more sophisticated than I thought you were when I first saw you?” “Oh, no, I’m not,” she exclaimed hurriedly. “Oh, I wouldn’t think of being. I think that sophisticated young people are terribly common, don’t you? I’m not at all, really. If you say I am, I’m going to cry.” She was so distressed that her lip was trembling. John was impelled to protest: “I didn’t mean that; I only said it to tease you.” “Because I wouldn’t mind if I were,” she persisted, “but I’m not. I’m very innocent and girlish. I never smoke, or drink, or read anything ex-

412 F. Scott Fitzgerald cept poetry. I know scarcely any mathematics or chemistry. I dress very simply—in fact, I scarcely dress at all. I think sophisticated is the last thing you can say about me. I believe that girls ought to enjoy their youths in a wholesome way.” “I do too,” said John heartily. Kismine was cheerful again. She smiled at him, and a stillborn tear dripped from the corner of one blue eye. “I like you,” she whispered, intimately. “Are you going to spend all your time with Percy while you’re here, or will you be nice to me? Just think—I’m absolutely fresh ground. I’ve never had a boy in love with me in all my life. I’ve never been allowed even to see boys alone—except Percy. I came all the way out here into this grove hoping to run into you, where the family wouldn’t be around.” Deeply flattered, John bowed from the hips as he had been taught at dancing school in Hades. “We’d better go now,” said Kismine sweetly. “I have to be with mother at eleven. You haven’t asked me to kiss you once. I thought boys always did that nowadays.” John drew himself up proudly. “Some of them do,” he answered, “but not me. Girls don’t do that sort of thing—in Hades.” Side by side they walked back toward the house. John stood facing Mr. Braddock Washington in the full sunlight. The elder man was about forty with a proud, vacuous face, intelligent eyes, and a robust figure. In the mornings he smelt of horses—the best horses. He carried a plain walking stick of gray birch with a single large opal for a grip. He and Percy were showing John around. “The slaves’ quarters are there.” His walking stick indicated a cloister of marble on their left that ran in graceful Gothic along the side of the mountain. “In my youth I was distracted for a while from the business of life by a period of absurd idealism. During that time they lived in luxury. For instance, I equipped every one of their rooms with a tile bath.” “I suppose,” ventured John, with an ingratiating laugh, “that they used the bathtubs to keep coal in. Mr. Schnlitzer-Murphy told me that once he—” “The opinions of Mr. Schnlitzer-Murphy are of little importance, I should imagine,” interrupted Braddock Washington, coldly. “My slaves did not keep coal in their bathtubs. They had orders to bathe every day, and they did. If they hadn’t I might have ordered a sulphuric acid sham-

413TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ poo. I discontinued the baths for quite another reason. Several of them caught cold and died. Water is not good for certain races—except as a beverage.” John laughed, and then decided to nod his head in sober agreement. Braddock Washington made him uncomfortable. “All these Negroes are descendants of the ones my father brought North with him. There are about two hundred and fifty now. You notice that they’ve lived so long apart from the world that their original dialect has become an almost indistinguishable patois. We bring a few of them up to speak English—my secretary and two or three of the house servants. “This is the golf course,” he continued, as they strolled along the velvet winter grass. “It’s all a green, you see—no fairway, no rough, no hazards.” He smiled pleasantly at John. “Many men in the cage, father?” asked Percy suddenly. Braddock Washington stumbled, and let forth an involuntary curse. “One less than there should be,” he ejaculated darkly—and then added after a moment, “We’ve had difficulties.” “Mother was telling me,” exclaimed Percy, “that Italian teacher—” “A ghastly error,” said Braddock Washington angrily. “But of course there’s a good chance that we may have got him. Perhaps he fell somewhere in the woods or stumbled over a cliff. And then there’s always the probability that if he did get away his story wouldn’t be believed. Nevertheless, I’ve had two dozen men looking for him in different towns around here.” “And no luck?” “Some. Fourteen of them reported to my agent that they’d each killed a man answering to that description, but of course it was probably only the reward they were after—” He broke off. They had come to a large cavity in the earth about the circumference of a merry-go-round and covered by a strong iron grating. Braddock Washington beckoned to John, and pointed his cane down through the grating. John stepped to the edge and gazed. Immediately his ears were assailed by a wild clamor from below. “Come on down to Hell!” “Hello, kiddo, how’s the air up there?” “Hey! Throw us a rope!” “Got an old doughnut, Buddy, or a couple of secondhand sandwiches?” “Say, fella, if you’ll push down that guy you’re with, we’ll show you a quick disappearance scene.” “Paste him one for me, will you?”

414 F. Scott Fitzgerald It was too dark to see clearly into the pit below, but John could tell from the coarse optimism and rugged vitality of the remarks and voices that they proceeded from middle-class Americans of the more spirited type. Then Mr. Washington put out his cane and touched a button in the grass, and the scene below sprang into light. “These are some adventurous mariners who had the misfortune to discover El Dorado,” he remarked. Below them there had appeared a large hollow in the earth shaped like the interior of a bowl. The sides were steep and apparently of polished glass, and on its slightly concave surface stood about two dozen men clad in the half costume, half uniform, of aviators. Their upturned faces, lit with wrath, with malice, with despair, with cynical humor, were covered by long growths of beard, but with the exception of a few who had pined perceptibly away, they seemed to be a well-fed, healthy lot. Braddock Washington drew a garden chair to the edge of the pit and sat down. “Well, how are you, boys?” he inquired genially. A chorus of execration, in which all joined except a few too dispirited to cry out, rose up into the sunny air, but Braddock Washington heard it with unruffled composure. When its last echo had died away he spoke again. “Have you thought up a way out of your difficulty?” From here and there among them a remark floated up. “We decided to stay here for love!” “Bring us up there and we’ll find us a way!” Braddock Washington waited until they were again quiet. Then he said: “I’ve told you the situation. I don’t want you here. I wish to heaven I’d never seen you. Your own curiosity got you here, and any time that you can think of a way out which protects me and my interests I’ll be glad to consider it. But so long as you confine your efforts to digging tunnels—yes, I know about the new one you’ve started—you won’t get very far. This isn’t as hard on you as you make it out, with all your howling for the loved ones at home. If you were the type who worried much about the loved ones at home, you’d never have taken up aviation.” A tall man moved apart from the others, and held up his hand to call his captor’s attention to what he was about to say. “Let me ask you a few questions!” he cried. “You pretend to be a fair- minded man.” “How absurd. How could a man of my position be fair minded toward

415TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ you? You might as well speak of a Spaniard being fair minded toward a piece of steak.” At this harsh observation the faces of the two dozen steaks fell, but the tall man continued: “All right!” he cried. “We’ve argued this out before. You’re not a humanitarian and you’re not fair minded, but you’re human—at least you say you are—and you ought to be able to put yourself in our place for long enough to think how—how—how—” “How what?” demanded Washington, coldly. “—how unnecessary—” “Not to me.” “Well—how cruel—” “We’ve covered that. Cruelty doesn’t exist where self-preservation is involved. You’ve been soldiers: you know that. Try another.” “Well, then, how stupid.” “There,” admitted Washington, “I grant you that. But try to think of an alternative. I’ve offered to have all or any of you painlessly executed if you wish. I’ve offered to have your wives, sweethearts, children, and mothers kidnapped and brought out here. I’ll enlarge your place down there and feed and clothe you the rest of your lives. If there was some method of producing permanent amnesia I’d have all of you operated on and released immediately, somewhere outside of my preserves. But that’s as far as my ideas go.” “How about trusting us not to peach on you?” cried someone. “You don’t proffer that suggestion seriously,” said Washington, with an expression of scorn. “I did take out one man to teach my daughter Italian. Last week he got away.” A wild yell of jubilation went up suddenly from two dozen throats and a pandemonium of joy ensued. The prisoners clog danced and cheered and yodled and wrestled with one another in a sudden uprush of animal spirits. They even ran up the glass sides of the bowl as far as they could, and slid back to the bottom upon the natural cushions of their bodies. The tall man started a song in which they all joined— Oh, we’ll hang the kaiser On a sour apple tree— Braddock Washington sat in inscrutable silence until the song was over.

416 F. Scott Fitzgerald “You see,” he remarked, when he could gain a modicum of attention, “I bear you no ill will. I like to see you enjoying yourselves. That’s why I didn’t tell you the whole story at once. The man—what was his name? Critchtichiello?—was shot by some of my agents in fourteen different places.” Not guessing that the places referred to were cities, the tumult of rejoicing subsided immediately. “Nevertheless,” cried Washington with a touch of anger, “he tried to run away. Do you expect me to take chances with any of you after an experience like that?” Again a series of ejaculations went up. “Sure!” “Would your daughter like to learn Chinese?” “Hey, I can speak Italian! My mother was a wop.” “Maybe she’d like t’learna speak N’Yawk!” “If she’s the little one with the big blue eyes I can teach her a lot of things better than Italian.” “I know some Irish songs—and I could hammer brass once’t.” Mr. Washington reached forward suddenly with his cane and pushed the button in the grass so that the picture below went out instantly, and there remained only that great dark mouth covered dismally with the black teeth of the grating. “Hey!” called a single voice from below, “you ain’t goin’ away without givin’ us your blessing?” But Mr. Washington, followed by the two boys, was already strolling on toward the ninth hole of the golf course, as though the pit and its contents were no more than a hazard over which his facile iron had triumphed with ease. July under the lee of the diamond mountain was a month of blanket nights and of warm, glowing days. John and Kismine were in love. He did not know that the little gold football (inscribed with the legend Pro deo et patria et St. Mida) which he had given her rested on a platinum chain next to her bosom. But it did. And she for her part was not aware that a large sapphire which had dropped one day from her simple coiffure was stowed away tenderly in John’s jewel box. Late one afternoon when the ruby and ermine music room was quiet, they spent an hour there together. He held her hand and she gave him such a look that he whispered her name aloud. She bent toward him— then hesitated.

417TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ “Did you say ‘Kismine’?” she asked softly, “or—” She had wanted to be sure. She thought she might have misunderstood. Neither of them had ever kissed before, but in the course of an hour it seemed to make little difference. The afternoon drifted away. That night when a last breath of music drifted down from the highest tower, they each lay awake, happily dreaming over the separate minutes of the day. They had decided to be married as soon as possible. Every day Mr. Washington and the two young men went hunting or fishing in the deep forests or played golf around the somnolent course— games which John diplomatically allowed his host to win—or swam in the mountain coolness of the lake. John found Mr. Washington a some- what exacting personality—utterly uninterested in any ideas or opinions except his own. Mrs. Washington was aloof and reserved at all times. She was apparently indifferent to her two daughters, and entirely absorbed in her son Percy, with whom she held interminable conversations in rapid Spanish at dinner. Jasmine, the elder daughter, resembled Kismine in appearance— except that she was somewhat bow-legged, and terminated in large hands and feet—but was utterly unlike her in temperament. Her favorite books had to do with poor girls who kept house for widowed fathers. John learned from Kismine that Jasmine had never recovered from the shock and disappointment caused her by the termination of the World War, just as she was about to start for Europe as a canteen expert. She had even pined away for a time, and Braddock Washington had taken steps to promote a new war in the Balkans—but she had seen a photograph of some wounded Serbian soldiers and lost interest in the whole proceedings. But Percy and Kismine seemed to have inherited the arrogant attitude in all its harsh magnificence from their father. A chaste and consistent selfishness ran like a pattern through their every idea. John was enchanted by the wonders of the château and the valley. Braddock Washington, so Percy told him, had caused to be kidnapped a landscape gardener, an architect, a designer of stage settings, and a French decadent poet left over from the last century. He had put his entire force of Negroes at their disposal, guaranteed to supply them with any materials that the world could offer, and left them to work out some ideas of their own. But one by one they had shown their uselessness. The decadent poet had at once begun bewailing his separation from the bou-

418 F. Scott Fitzgerald levards in spring—he made some vague remarks about spices, apes, and ivories, but said nothing that was of any practical value. The stage designer on his part wanted to make the whole valley a series of tricks and sensational effects—a state of things that the Washingtons would soon have grown tired of. And as for the architect and the landscape gardener, they thought only in terms of convention. They must make this like this and that like that. But they had, at least, solved the problem of what was to be done with them—they all went mad early one morning after spending the night in a single room trying to agree upon the location of a fountain, and were now confined comfortably in an insane asylum at Westport, Connecticut. “But,” inquired John curiously, “who did plan all your wonderful reception rooms and halls, and approaches and bathrooms—?” “Well,” answered Percy, “I blush to tell you, but it was a moving- picture fella. He was the only man we found who was used to playing with an unlimited amount of money, though he did tuck his napkin in his collar and couldn’t read or write.” As August drew to a close John began to regret that he must soon go back to school. He and Kismine had decided to elope the following June. “It would be nicer to be married here,” Kismine confessed, “but of course I could never get father’s permission to marry you at all. Next to that I’d rather elope. It’s terrible for wealthy people to be married in America at present—they always have to send out bulletins to the press saying that they’re going to be married in remnants, when what they mean is just a peck of old secondhand pearls and some used lace worn once by the Empress Eugénie.” “I know,” agreed John fervently. “When I was visiting the Schnlitzer- Murphys, the eldest daughter, Gwendolyn, married a man whose father owns half of West Virginia. She wrote home saying what a tough struggle she was carrying on on his salary as a bank clerk—and then she ended up by saying that ‘Thank God, I have four good maids anyhow, and that helps a little.’ ” “It’s absurd,” commented Kismine. “Think of the millions and millions of people in the world, laborers and all, who get along with only two maids.” One afternoon late in August a chance remark of Kismine’s changed the face of the entire situation, and threw John into a state of terror. They were in their favorite grove, and between kisses John was indulging in some romantic forebodings which he fancied added poignancy to their relations.

419TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ “Sometimes I think we’ll never marry,” he said sadly. “You’re too wealthy, too magnificent. No one as rich as you are can be like other girls. I should marry the daughter of some well-to-do wholesale hardware man from Omaha or Sioux City, and be content with her half million.” “I knew the daughter of a wholesale hardware man once,” remarked Kismine. “I don’t think you’d have been contented with her. She was a friend of my sister’s. She visited here.” “Oh, then you’ve had other guests?” exclaimed John in surprise. Kismine seemed to regret her words. “Oh, yes,” she said hurriedly, “we’ve had a few.” “But aren’t you—wasn’t your father afraid they’d talk outside?” “Oh, to some extent, to some extent,” she answered. “Let’s talk about something pleasanter.” But John’s curiosity was aroused. “Something pleasanter!” he demanded. “What’s unpleasant about that? Weren’t they nice girls?” To his great surprise Kismine began to weep. “Yes—th—that’s the—the whole t-trouble. I grew qu-quite attached to some of them. So did Jasmine, but she kept inv-viting them anyway. I couldn’t understand it.” A dark suspicion was born in John’s heart. “Do you mean that they told, and your father had them—removed?” “Worse than that,” she muttered brokenly. “Father took no chances— and Jasmine kept writing them to come, and they had such a good time!” She was overcome by a paroxysm of grief. Stunned with the horror of this revelation, John sat there open- mouthed, feeling the nerves of his body twitter like so many sparrows perched upon his spinal column. “Now, I’ve told you, and I shouldn’t have,” she said, calming suddenly and drying her dark blue eyes. “Do you mean to say that your father had them murdered before they left?” She nodded. “In August usually—or early in September. It’s only natural for us to get all the pleasure out of them that we can first.” “How abominable! How—why, I must be going crazy! Did you really admit that—” “I did,” interrupted Kismine, shrugging her shoulders. “We can’t very well imprison them like those aviators, where they’d be a continual reproach to us every day. And it’s always been made easier for Jasmine and

420 F. Scott Fitzgerald me, because father had it done sooner than we expected. In that way we avoided any farewell scene—” “So you murdered them! Uh!” cried John. “It was done very nicely. They were drugged while they were asleep— and their families were always told that they died of scarlet fever in Butte.” “But—I fail to understand why you kept on inviting them!” “I didn’t,” burst out Kismine. “I never invited one. Jasmine did. And they always had a very good time. She’d give them the nicest presents toward the last. I shall probably have visitors too—I’ll harden up to it. We can’t let such an inevitable thing as death stand in the way of enjoying life while we have it. Think how lonesome it’d be out here if we never had any one. Why, father and mother have sacrificed some of their best friends just as we have.” “And so,” cried John accusingly, “and so you were letting me make love to you and pretending to return it, and talking about marriage, all the time knowing perfectly well that I’d never get out of here alive—” “No,” she protested passionately. “Not any more. I did at first. You were here. I couldn’t help that, and I thought your last days might as well be pleasant for both of us. But then I fell in love with you, and— and I’m honestly sorry you’re going to—going to be put away—though I’d rather you’d be put away than ever kiss another girl.” “Oh, you would, would you?” cried John ferociously. “Much rather. Besides, I’ve always heard that a girl can have more fun with a man whom she knows she can never marry. Oh, why did I tell you? I’ve probably spoiled your whole good time now, and we were really enjoying things when you didn’t know it. I knew it would make things sort of depressing for you.” “Oh, you did, did you?” John’s voice trembled with anger. “I’ve heard about enough of this. If you haven’t any more pride and decency than to have an affair with a fellow that you know isn’t much better than a corpse, I don’t want to have any more to do with you.” “You’re not a corpse!” she protested in horror. “You’re not a corpse! I won’t have you saying that I kissed a corpse!” “I said nothing of the sort!” “You did! You said I kissed a corpse!” “I didn’t!” Their voices had risen, but upon a sudden interruption they both subsided into immediate silence. Footsteps were coming along the path in their direction, and a moment later the rose bushes were parted display-

421TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ ing Braddock Washington, whose intelligent eyes set in his good-looking vacuous face were peering in at them. “Who kissed a corpse?” he demanded in obvious disapproval. “Nobody,” answered Kismine quickly. “We were just joking.” “What are you two doing here, anyhow?” he demanded gruffly. “Kismine, you ought to be—to be reading or playing golf with your sister. Go read! Go play golf! Don’t let me find you here when I come back!” Then he bowed at John and went up the path. “See?” said Kismine crossly, when he was out of hearing. “You’ve spoiled it all. We can never meet any more. He won’t let me meet you. He’d have you poisoned if he thought we were in love.” “We’re not, any more!” cried John fiercely, “so he can set his mind at rest upon that. Moreover, don’t fool yourself that I’m going to stay around here. Inside of six hours I’ll be over those mountains, if I have to gnaw a passage through them, and on my way East.” They had both got to their feet, and at this remark Kismine came close and put her arm through his, “I’m going, too.” “You must be crazy—” “Of course I’m going,” she interrupted impatiently. “You most certainly are not. You—” “Very well,” she said quietly, “we’ll catch up with father now and talk it over with him.” Defeated, John mustered a sickly smile. “Very well, dearest,” he agreed, with pale and unconvincing affection, “we’ll go together.” His love for her returned and settled placidly on his heart. She was his—she would go with him to share his dangers. He put his arms about her and kissed her fervently. After all she loved him; she had saved him, in fact. Discussing the matter they walked slowly back toward the château. They decided that since Braddock Washington had seen them together they had best depart the next night. Nevertheless, John’s lips were unusually dry at dinner, and he nervously emptied a great spoonful of peacock soup into his left lung. He had to be carried into the tourquoise and sable cardroom and pounded on the back by one of the underbutlers, which Percy considered a great joke. Long after midnight John’s body gave a nervous jerk, and he sat suddenly upright, staring into the veils of somnolence that draped the room.

422 F. Scott Fitzgerald Through the squares of blue darkness that were his open windows, he had heard a faint faraway sound that died upon a bed of wind before identifying itself on his memory, clouded with uneasy dreams. But the sharp noise that had succeeded it was nearer, was just outside the room— the click of a turned knob, a footstep, a whisper, he could not tell; a hard lump gathered in the pit of his stomach, and his whole body ached in the moment that he strained agonizingly to hear. Then one of the veils seemed to dissolve, and he saw a vague figure standing by the door, a figure only faintly limned and blocked in upon the darkness, mingled so with the folds of the drapery as to seem distorted, like a reflection seen in a dirty pane of glass. With a sudden movement of fright or resolution John pressed the button by his bedside, and the next moment he was sitting in the green sunken bath of the adjoining room, waked into alertness by the shock of the cold water which half filled it. He sprang out, and, his wet pajamas scattering a heavy trickle of water behind him, ran for the aquamarine door which he knew led out onto the ivory landing of the second floor. The door opened noiselessly. A single crimson lamp burning in a great dome above lit the magnificent sweep of the carved stairways with a poignant beauty. For a moment John hesitated, appalled by the silent splendor massed about him, seeming to envelop in its gigantic folds and contours the solitary drenched little figure shivering upon the ivory landing. Then simultaneously two things happened. The door of his own sitting room swung open, precipitating three naked Negroes into the hall—and, as John swayed in wild terror toward the stairway, another door slid back in the wall on the other side of the corridor, and John saw Braddock Washington standing in the lighted lift, wearing a fur coat and a pair of riding boots which reached to his knees and displayed, above, the glow of his rose-colored pajamas. On the instant the three Negroes—John had never seen any of them before, and it flashed through his mind that they must be the professional executioners—paused in their movement toward John, and turned expectantly to the man in the lift, who burst out with an imperious command: “Get in here! All three of you! Quick as hell!” Then, within the instant, the three Negroes darted into the cage, the oblong of light was blotted out as the lift door slid shut, and John was again alone in the hall. He slumped weakly down against an ivory stair. It was apparent that something portentous had occurred, something

423TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ which, for the moment at least, had postponed his own petty disaster. What was it? Had the Negroes risen in revolt? Had the aviators forced aside the iron bars of the grating? Or had the men of Fish stumbled blindly through the hills and gazed with bleak, joyless eyes upon the gaudy valley? John did not know. He heard a faint whir of air as the lift whizzed up again, and then, a moment later, as it descended. It was probable that Percy was hurrying to his father’s assistance, and it occurred to John that this was his opportunity to join Kismine and plan an immediate escape. He waited until the lift had been silent for several minutes; shivering a little with the night cool that whipped in through his wet pajamas, he returned to his room and dressed himself quickly. Then he mounted a long flight of stairs and turned down the corridor carpeted with Russian sable which led to Kismine’s suite. The door of her sitting room was open and the lamps were lighted. Kismine, in an angora kimono, stood near the window of the room in a listening attitude, and as John entered noiselessly, she turned toward him. “Oh, it’s you!” she whispered, crossing the room to him. “Did you hear them?” “I heard your father’s slaves in my—” “No,” she interrupted excitedly. “Airplanes!” “Airplanes? Perhaps that was the sound that woke me.” “There’re at least a dozen. I saw one a few moments ago dead against the moon. The guard back by the cliff fired his rifle and that’s what roused father. We’re going to open on them right away.” “Are they here on purpose?” “Yes, it’s that Italian who got away—” Simultaneously with her last word, a succession of sharp cracks tumbled in through the open window. Kismine uttered a little cry, took a penny with fumbling fingers from a box on her dresser, and ran to one of the electric lights. In an instant the entire château was in darkness—she had blown out the fuse. “Come on!” she cried to him. “We’ll go up to the roof garden, and watch it from there!” Drawing a cape about her, she took his hand, and they found their way out the door. It was only a step to the tower lift, and as she pressed the button that shot them upward he put his arms around her in the darkness and kissed her mouth. Romance had come to John Unger at last. A minute later they had stepped out upon the star-white platform. Above, under the misty moon, sliding in and out of the patches of cloud that eddied below it, floated a dozen dark-winged bodies in a constant

424 F. Scott Fitzgerald circling course. From here and there in the valley flashes of fire leaped toward them, followed by sharp detonations. Kismine clapped her hands with pleasure, which a moment later turned to dismay as the airplanes at some prearranged signal began to release their bombs and the whole of the valley became a panorama of deep reverberate sound and lurid light. Before long the aim of the attackers became concentrated upon the points where the antiaircraft guns were situated, and one of them was almost immediately reduced to a giant cinder to lie smouldering in a park of rose bushes. “Kismine,” begged John, “you’ll be glad when I tell you that this attack came on the eve of my murder. If I hadn’t heard that guard shoot off his gun back by the pass I should now be stone dead—” “I can’t hear you!” cried Kismine, intent on the scene before her. “You’ll have to talk louder!” “I simply said,” shouted John, “that we’d better get out before they begin to shell the château!” Suddenly the whole portico of the Negro quarters cracked asunder, a geyser of flame shot up from under the colonnades, and great fragments of jagged marble were hurled as far as the borders of the lake. “There go fifty thousand dollar’s worth of slaves,” cried Kismine, “at prewar prices. So few Americans have any respect for property.” John renewed his efforts to compel her to leave. The aim of the airplanes was becoming more precise minute by minute, and only two of the antiaircraft guns were still retaliating. It was obvious that the garrison, encircled with fire, could not hold out much longer. “Come on!” cried John, pulling Kismine’s arm, “we’ve got to go. Do you realize that those aviators will kill you without question if they find you?” She consented reluctantly. “We’ll have to wake Jasmine!” she said, as they hurried toward the lift. Then she added in a sort of childish delight: “We’ll be poor, won’t we? Like people in books. And I’ll be an orphan and utterly free. Free and poor! What fun!” She stopped and raised her lips to him in a delighted kiss. “It’s impossible to be both together,” said John grimly. “People have found that out. And I should choose to be free as preferable of the two. As an extra caution you’d better dump the contents of your jewel box into your pockets.” Ten minutes later the two girls met John in the dark corridor and they

425TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ descended to the main floor of the château. Passing for the last time through the magnificence of the splendid halls, they stood for a moment out on the terrace, watching the burning Negro quarters and the flaming embers of two planes which had fallen on the other side of the lake. A solitary gun was still keeping up a sturdy popping, and the attackers seemed timorous about descending lower, but sent their thunderous fireworks in a circle around it, until any chance shot might annihilate its Ethiopian crew. John and the two sisters passed down the marble steps, turned sharply to the left, and began to ascend a narrow path that wound like a garter about the diamond mountain. Kismine knew a heavily wooded spot halfway up where they could lie concealed and yet be able to observe the wild night in the valley—finally to make an escape, when it should be necessary, along a secret path laid in a rocky gully. It was three o’clock when they attained their destination. The obliging and phlegmatic Jasmine fell off to sleep immediately, leaning against the trunk of a large tree, while John and Kismine sat, his arm around her, and watched the desperate ebb and flow of the dying battle among the ruins of a vista that had been a garden spot that morning. Shortly after four o’clock the last remaining gun gave out a clanging sound and went out of action in a swift tongue of red smoke. Though the moon was down, they saw that the flying bodies were circling closer to the earth. When the planes had made certain that the beleaguered possessed no further resources, they would land and the dark and glittering reign of the Washingtons would be over. With the cessation of the firing the valley grew quiet. The embers of the two airplanes glowed like the eyes of some monster crouching in the grass. The château stood dark and silent, beautiful without light as it had been beautiful in the sun, while the woody rattles of Nemesis filled the air above with a growing and receding complaint. Then John perceived that Kismine, like her sister, had fallen sound asleep. It was long after four when he became aware of footsteps along the path they had lately followed, and he waited in breathless silence until the persons to whom they belonged had passed the vantage point he occupied. There was a faint stir in the air now that was not of human origin, and the dew was cold; he knew that the dawn would break soon. John waited until the steps had gone a safe distance up the mountain and were inaudible. Then he followed. About half-way to the steep summit the trees fell away and a hard saddle of rock spread itself over the diamond

426 F. Scott Fitzgerald beneath. Just before he reached this point he slowed down his pace, warned by an animal sense that there was life just ahead of him. Coming to a high boulder, he lifted his head gradually above its edge. His curiosity was rewarded; this is what he saw: Braddock Washington was standing there motionless, silhouetted against the gray sky without sound or sign of life. As the dawn came up out of the east, lending a cold green color to the earth, it brought the solitary figure into insignificant contrast with the new day. While John watched, his host remained for a few moments absorbed in some inscrutable contemplation; then he signaled to the two Negroes who crouched at his feet to lift the burden which lay between them. As they struggled upright, the first yellow beam of the sun struck through the innumerable prisms of an immense and exquisitely chiseled diamond— and a white radiance was kindled that glowed upon the air like a fragment of the morning star. The bearers staggered beneath its weight for a moment—then their rippling muscles caught and hardened under the wet shine of the skins and the three figures were again motionless in their defiant impotency before the heavens. After a while the white man lifted his head and slowly raised his arms in a gesture of attention, as one who would call a great crowd to hear— but there was no crowd, only the vast silence of the mountain and the sky, broken by faint bird voices down among the trees. The figure on the saddle of rock began to speak ponderously and with an inextinguishable pride. “You out there—” he cried in a trembling voice. “You—there—!” He paused, his arms still uplifted, his head held attentively as though he were expecting an answer. John strained his eyes to see whether there might be men coming down the mountain, but the mountain was bare of human life. There was only sky and a mocking flute of wind along the treetops. Could Washington be praying? For a moment John wondered. Then the illusion passed—there was something in the man’s whole attitude antithetical to prayer. “Oh, you above there!” The voice was become strong and confident. This was no forlorn supplication. If anything, there was in it a quality of monstrous condescension. “You there—” Words, too quickly uttered to be understood, flowing one into the other. . . . John listened breathlessly, catching a phrase here and there, while the voice broke off, resumed, broke off again—now strong and argu-

427TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ mentative, now colored with a slow, puzzled impatience. Then a conviction commenced to dawn on the single listener, and as realization crept over him a spray of quick blood rushed through his arteries. Braddock Washington was offering a bribe to God! That was it—there was no doubt. The diamond in the arms of his slaves was some advance sample, a promise of more to follow. That, John perceived after a time, was the thread running through his sentences. Prometheus Enriched was calling to witness forgotten sacrifices, forgotten rituals, prayers obsolete before the birth of Christ. For a while his discourse took the form of reminding God of this gift or that which Divinity had deigned to accept from men—great churches if he would rescue cities from the plague, gifts of myrrh and gold, of human lives and beautiful women and captive armies, of children and queens, of beasts of the forest and fleld, sheep and goats, harvests and cities, whole conquered lands that had been offered up in lust or blood for His appeasal, buying a meed’s worth of alleviation from the Divine wrath— and now he, Braddock Washington, Emperor of Diamonds, king and priest of the age of gold, arbiter of splendor and luxury, would offer up a treasure such as princes before him had never dreamed of, offer it up not in suppliance, but in pride. He would give to God, he continued, getting down to specifications, the greatest diamond in the world. This diamond would be cut with many more thousand facets than there were leaves on a tree, and yet the whole diamond would be shaped with the perfection of a stone no bigger than a fly. Many men would work upon it for many years. It would be set in a great dome of beaten gold, wonderfully carved and equipped with gates of opal and crusted sapphire. In the middle would be hollowed out a chapel presided over by an altar of iridescent, decomposing, ever- changing radium which would burn out the eyes of any worshipper who lifted up his head from prayer—and on this altar there would be slain for the amusement of the Divine Benefactor any victim He should choose, even though it should be the greatest and most powerful man alive. In return he asked only a simple thing, a thing that for God would be absurdly easy—only that matters should be as they were yesterday at this hour and that they should so remain. So very simple! Let but the heavens open, swallowing these men and their airplanes—and then close again. Let him have his slaves once more, restored to life and well. There was no one else with whom he had ever needed to treat or bargain.

428 F. Scott Fitzgerald He doubted only whether he had made his bribe big enough. God had His price, of course. God was made in man’s image, so it had been said: He must have His price. And the price would be rare—no cathedral whose building consumed many years, no pyramid constructed by ten thousand workmen, would be like this cathedral, this pyramid. He paused here. That was his proposition. Everything would be up to specifications and there was nothing vulgar in his assertion that it would be cheap at the price. He implied that Providence could take it or leave it. As he approached the end his sentences became broken, became short and uncertain, and his body seemed tense, seemed strained to catch the slightest pressure or whisper of life in the spaces around him. His hair had turned gradually white as he talked, and now he lifted his head high to the heavens like a prophet of old—magnificently mad. Then, as John stared in giddy fascination, it seemed to him that a curious phenomenon took place somewhere around him. It was as though the sky had darkened for an instant, as though there had been a sudden murmur in a gust of wind, a sound of faraway trumpets, a sighing like the rustle of a great silken robe—for a time the whole of nature round about partook of this darkness: the birds’ song ceased; the trees were still and far over the mountain there was a mutter of dull, menacing thunder. That was all. The wind died along the tall grasses of the valley. The dawn and the day resumed their place in a time, and the risen sun sent hot waves of yellow mist that made its path bright before it. The leaves laughed in the sun, and their laughter shook the trees until each bough was like a girl’s school in fairyland. God had refused to accept the bribe. For another moment John watched the triumph of the day. Then, turning, he saw a flutter of brown down by the lake, then another flutter, then another, like the dance of golden angels alighting from the clouds. The airplanes had come to earth. John slid off the boulder and ran down the side of the mountain to the clump of trees, where the two girls were awake and waiting for him. Kismine sprang to her feet, the jewels in her pockets jingling, a question on her parted lips, but instinct told John that there was no time for words. They must get off the mountain without losing a moment. He seized a hand of each, and in silence they threaded the tree trunks, washed with light now and with the rising mist. Behind them from the valley came no sound at all, except the complaint of the peacocks far away and the pleasant undertone of morning. When they had gone about half a mile, they avoided the park land and entered a narrow path that led over the next rise of ground. At the high-

429TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ est point of this they paused and turned around. Their eyes rested upon the mountainside they had just left—oppressed by some dark sense of tragic impendency. Clear against the sky a broken, white-haired man was slowly descending the steep slope, followed by two gigantic and emotionless Negroes, who carried a burden between them which still flashed and glittered in the sun. Half-way down two other figures joined them—John could see that they were Mrs. Washington and her son, upon whose arm she leaned. The aviators had clambered from their machines to the sweeping lawn in front of the château, and with rifles in hand were starting up the diamond mountain in skirmishing formation. But the little group of five which had formed farther up and was engrossing all the watchers’ attention had stopped upon a ledge of rock. The Negroes stooped and pulled up what appeared to be a trap door in the side of the mountain. Into this they all disappeared, the white-haired man first, then his wife and son, finally the two Negroes, the glittering tips of whose jeweled headdress caught the sun for a moment before the trap door descended and engulfed them all. Kismine clutched John’s arm. “Oh,” she cried wildly, “where are they going? What are they going to do?” “It must be some underground way of escape—” A little scream from the two girls interrupted his sentence. “Don’t you see?” sobbed Kismine hysterically. “The mountain is wired!” Even as she spoke John put up his hands to shield his sight. Before their eyes the whole surface of the mountain had changed suddenly to a dazzling burning yellow, which showed up through the jacket of turf as light shows through a human hand. For a moment the intolerable glow continued, and then like an extinguished filament it disappeared, revealing a black waste from which blue smoke arose slowly, carrying off with it what remained of vegetation and of human flesh. Of the aviators there was left neither blood nor bone—they were consumed as completely as the five souls who had gone inside. Simultaneously, and with an immense concussion, the château literally threw itself into the air, bursting into flaming fragments as it rose, and then tumbling back upon itself in a smoking pile that lay projecting half into the water of the lake. There was no fire—what smoke there was drifted off mingling with the sunshine, and for a few minutes longer a powdery dust of marble drifted from the great featureless pile that had

430 F. Scott Fitzgerald once been the house of jewels. There was no more sound and the three people were alone in the valley. At sunset John and his two companions reached the high cliff which had marked the boundaries of the Washingtons’ dominion, and looking back found the valley tranquil and lovely in the dusk. They sat down to finish the food which Jasmine had brought with her in a basket. “There!” she said, as she spread the tablecloth and put the sandwiches in a neat pile upon it. “Don’t they look tempting? I always think that food tastes better outdoors.” “With that remark,” remarked Kismine, “Jasmine enters the middle class.” “Now,” said John eagerly, “turn out your pocket and let’s see what jewels you brought along. If you made a good selection we three ought to live comfortably all the rest of our lives.” Obediently Kismine put her hand in her pocket and tossed two handfuls of glittering stones before him. “Not so bad,” cried John, enthusiastically. “They aren’t very big, but— Hello!” His expression changed as he held one of them up to the declining sun. “Why, these aren’t diamonds! There’s something the matter!” “By golly!” exclaimed Kismine, with a startled look. “What an idiot I am!” “Why, these are rhinestones!” cried John. “I know.” She broke into a laugh. “I opened the wrong drawer. They belonged on the dress of a girl who visited Jasmine. I got her to give them to me in exchange for diamonds. I’d never seen anything but precious stones before.” “And this is what you brought?” “I’m afraid so.” She fingered the brilliants wistfully. “I think I like these better. I’m a little tired of diamonds.” “Very well,” said John gloomily. “We’ll have to live in Hades. And you will grow old telling incredulous women that you got the wrong drawer. Unfortunately your father’s bankbooks were consumed with him.” “Well, what’s the matter with Hades?” “If I come home with a wife at my age my father is just as liable as not to cut me off with a hot coal, as they say down there.” Jasmine spoke up. “I love washing,” she said quietly. “I have always washed my own handkerchiefs. I’ll take in laundry and support you both.” “Do they have washwomen in Hades?” asked Kismine innocently.

431TH E DIAMON D AS BIG AS TH E RITZ “Of course,” answered John. “It’s just like anywhere else.” “I thought—perhaps it was too hot to wear any clothes.” John laughed. “Just try it!” he suggested. “They’ll run you out before you’re half started.” “Will father be there?” she asked. John turned to her in astonishment. “Your father is dead,” he replied somberly. “Why should he go to Hades? You have it confused with another place that was abolished long ago.” After supper they folded up the tablecloth and spread their blankets for the night. “What a dream it was,” Kismine sighed, gazing up at the stars. “How strange it seems to be here with one dress and a penniless fiancé! “Under the stars,” she repeated. “I never noticed the stars before. I always thought of them as great big diamonds that belonged to someone. Now they frighten me. They make me feel that it was all a dream, all my youth.” “It was a dream,” said John quietly. “Everybody’s youth is a dream, a form of chemical madness.” “How pleasant then to be insane!” “So I’m told,” said John gloomily. “I don’t know any longer. At any rate, let us love for a while, for a year or so, you and me. That’s a form of divine drunkenness that we can all try. There are only diamonds in the whole world, diamonds and perhaps the shabby gift of disillusion. Well, I have that last and I will make the usual nothing of it.” He shivered. “Turn up your coat collar, little girl, the night’s full of chill and you’ll get pneumonia. His was a great sin who first invented consciousness. Let us lose it for a few hours.” So wrapping himself in his blanket he fell off to sleep.

432 Honoré de Balzac 1799–1850 Honoré Balzac (he adopted the aristocratic de about 1831) was born in Tours, France, on May 20, 1799. He studied law at the University of Paris. In 1819 his family gave him a starvation allowance to try literature. He wrote a verse tragedy, Cromwell. For five or six years he worked as a journalist, fathered stillborn magazines, and turned out romantic thrillers by the yard. A speculation in publishing, printing, and type founding crashed in 1828, leaving him heavily in debt to his mother and his friend Madame de Berny. A first novel under his own name, The Last Chouan (later The Chouans), was published in 1829. The Physiology of Marriage, in the following year, made him a celebrity. About this time his plan for The Human Comedy, a great structure of fiction that would embody the social life of his period, began to take shape. The Shagreen Skin in 1831 was followed, during the period of 1832 to 1836, by more than twenty works, including Louis Lambert, The Country Doctor, Eugénie Grandet, and Père Goriot—the latter two among his masterpieces. An affair with the Marquise de Castries gave him access to the upper levels of French society. For the rest of the 1830’s and into the 1840’s, his tremendous production rolled on in such works as Lost Illusions, César Birotteau, The Village Curé, Béatrix, Droll Stories, Notes from the artist: “. . . the sectioning of Balzac’s head into pie-shaped pieces was suggested by the author’s own intention to build up a complete conspectus of human society (La Comédie humaine), with each of his works contributing one piece of the whole.”

434 Honoré de Balzac and Modeste Mignon. He traveled in Italy and cultivated the society of the Countess Guidoboni-Visconti, an Englishwoman. As president of the Society of Men of Letters, he was active in promoting the rights of authors. In 1833 he had first met the Polish Countess Éveline Hanska. He courted her for nearly twenty years. Splendors and Miseries of the Courtesans, Cousin Bette, and Cousin Pons belong among his later works. He wrote about a hundred books. It is estimated that what he had finished of The Human Comedy includes about three thousand characters. His health was declining, but he made several trips to Poland. He married Madame Hanska at Berdichev in March, 1850. They returned to Paris, where Balzac died on August 18th of the same year. A Passion in the Desert was published in 1837, in the same year as César Birotteau and the first part of Lost Illusions. We observe first that it is a story within a story. Why did the author choose this form? One reason, we may guess, is that in the first scene at M. Martin’s menagerie Balzac wishes to remind us that what are called “the big cats” in the circus can be gentled and trained. Thus the soldier’s adventure in the desert will appear less unlikely. Another reason, and perhaps the chief one, is that Balzac evidently preferred not to limit himself to the old soldier’s matter-of-fact expression. So he gives us a worldly narrator who is capable of suggesting all the emotional and “philosophic” niceties of the situation. Moreover, since this is a story about love, the narrator’s woman friend becomes his expert and skeptical audience. Like other stories of Balzac’s, this one seems now and then to be poised on the margin between reality and fable. We feel this, for example, in the incident in which the leopard (“panther” is a more general term) drags the soldier out of the quicksand. It reminds us of Pliny the Elder’s term for leopards—“spotted ladies”—and his remark that only the lion “shows mercy to suppliants.” Clearly we are in the region of fable. But how often do we feel this in Balzac’s story? Hardly at all. This is his first triumph: that he makes us believe the events in the story could happen. He begins by giving us an example of the soldier’s cool resolution in his escape from the Arab camp. The soldier will need all of it that first night in the cave when he wakes up in the dark and hears

435Honoré de Balzac “a respiration whose savage energy could not belong to a human creature.” Already this Napoleonic soldier, this trooper (he wears spurs) from Provence, has endured the excitement of escape, the despair of finding himself alone in the desert, and the joy of discovering date palms loaded with fruit. Now he faces raw terror as the moon gradually reveals a panther sleeping in the mouth of his cave. It is unlikely, again. She would have scented him, we think. Perhaps she would have waked him as she prowled back and forth in front of the cave. But again, we are willing to believe it. The trooper has a loaded rifle, a scimitar, a dagger. But he does not try to kill her. We believe in his prudence and his forbearance—so French, so intrepid in the Napoleonic style. He is cool enough to observe that she has blood on her muzzle. She will not be hungry again for a while. So begins what is perhaps the strangest love story in all fiction. He is charmed by her feminine power, her suppleness and grace. He woos her. She responds with the languorous affection of a great house cat. He is reminded of his first sweetheart, Virginie, and of how he was always a little afraid of the knife she threatened him with. He too keeps his dagger in hand. But gradually, though he does not give up hope of rescue, he feels in himself a great change of heart. The desert becomes a magic dwelling place. He discovers “in the rising and setting of the sun sights unknown to the world.” For a moment—but only for a moment—the Peaceable Kingdom is at hand.

436 A Passion in the Desert he whole show is dreadful,” she cried, coming out of the menagerie of M. Martin. She had just been looking at that daring speculator “working with his hyena”—to speak in the style of the program. “By what means,” she continued, “can he have tamed these animals to such a point as to be certain of their affection for—.” “What seems to you a problem,” said I, interrupting, “is really quite natural.” “Oh!” she cried, letting an incredulous smile wander over her lips. “You think that beasts are wholly without passions?” I asked her. “Quite the reverse; we can communicate to them all the vices arising in our own state of civilization.” She looked at me with an air of astonishment. “Nevertheless,” I continued, “the first time I saw M. Martin, I admit, like you, I did give vent to an exclamation of surprise. I found myself next to an old soldier with the right leg amputated, who had come in with me. His face had struck me. He had one of those intrepid heads, stamped with the seal of warfare, and on which the battles of Napoleon are written. Besides, he had that frank good-humored expression which always impresses me favorably. He was without doubt one of those troopers who are surprised at nothing, who find matter for laughter in the contortions of a dying comrade, who bury or plunder him quite light- heartedly, who stand intrepidly in the way of bullets; in fact, one of those men who waste no time in deliberation, and would not hesitate to make friends with the devil himself. After looking very attentively at the proprietor of the menagerie getting out of his box, my companion pursed up his lips with an air of mockery and contempt, with that peculiar and expressive twist which superior people assume to show they are not

437A PASS ION I N TH E DE S E RT taken in. Then when I was expatiating on the courage of M. Martin, he smiled, shook his head knowingly, and said, ‘Well known.’ “How ‘well known’?” I said. “If you would only explain to me the mystery I should be vastly obliged.” “After a few minutes, during which we made acquaintance, we went to dine at the first restaurateur’s whose shop caught our eye. At dessert a bottle of champagne completely refreshed and brightened up the memories of this odd old soldier. He told me his story, and I said he had every reason to exclaim, ‘Well known.’ ” When she got home, she teased me to that extent and made so many promises that I consented to communicate to her the old soldier’s confidences. Next day she received the following episode of an epic which one might call “The Frenchman in Egypt.” During the expedition in Upper Egypt under General Desaix, a Provençal soldier fell into the hands of the Mangrabins, and was taken by these Arabs into the deserts beyond the falls of the Nile. In order to place a sufficient distance between themselves and the French Army, the Mangrabins made forced marches, and only rested during the night. They camped round a well overshadowed by palm trees under which they had previously concealed a store of provisions. Not surmising that the notion of flight would occur to their prisoner, they contented themselves with binding his hands, and after eating a few dates, and giving provender to their horses, went to sleep. When the brave Provençal saw that his enemies were no longer watching him, he made use of his teeth to steal a scimitar, fixed the blade between his knees, and cut the cords which prevented using his hands; in a moment he was free. He at once seized a rifle and dagger, then taking the precaution to provide himself with a sack of dried dates, oats, and powder and shot, and to fasten a scimitar to his waist, he leaped onto a horse, and spurred on vigorously in the direction where he thought to find the French Army. So impatient was he to see a bivouac again that he pressed on the already tired courser at such speed that its flanks were lacerated with his spurs, and at last the poor animal died, leaving the Frenchman alone in the desert. After walking some time in the sand with all the courage of an escaped convict, the soldier was obliged to stop, as the day had already ended. In spite of the beauty of an oriental sky at night, he felt he had not strength enough to go on. Fortunately he had been able to find a small hill, on the summit of which a few palm trees shot up into the air; it was their verdure seen from afar which had brought hope and consolation to his heart. His fatigue was so great that

438 Honoré de Balzac he lay down upon a rock of granite, capriciously cut out like a camp bed; there he fell asleep without taking any precaution to defend himself while he slept. He had made the sacrifice of his life. His last thought was one of regret. He repented having left the Mangrabins, whose nomad life seemed to smile on him now that he was afar from them and without help. He was awakened by the sun, whose pitiless rays fell with all their force on the granite and produced an intolerable heat—for he had had the stupidity to place himself inversely to the shadow thrown by the verdant majestic heads of the palm trees. He looked at the solitary trees and shuddered—they reminded him of the graceful shafts crowned with foliage which characterize the Saracen columns in the cathedral of Aries. But when, after counting the palm trees, he cast his eye around him, the most horrible despair was infused into his soul. Before him stretched an ocean without limit. The dark sand of the desert spread farther than sight could reach in every direction, and glittered like steel struck with a bright light. It might have been a sea of looking glass, or lakes melted together in a mirror. A fiery vapor carried up in streaks made a perpetual whirlwind over the quivering land. The sky was lit with an oriental splendor of insupportable purity, leaving naught for the imagination to desire. Heaven and earth were on fire. The silence was awful in its wild and terrible majesty. Infinity, immensity, closed in upon the soul from every side. Not a cloud in the sky, not a breath in the air, not a flaw on the bosom of the sand, ever moving in diminutive waves; the horizon ended as at sea on a clear day, with one line of light, definite as the cut of a sword. The Provençal threw his arms around the trunk of one of the palm trees, as though it were the body of a friend, and then in the shelter of the thin straight shadow that the palm cast upon the granite, he wept. Then sitting down he remained as he was, contemplating with profound sadness the implacable scene, which was all he had to look upon. He cried aloud, to measure the solitude. His voice, lost in the hollows of the hill, sounded faintly, and aroused no echo—the echo was in his own heart. The Provençal was twenty-two years old;—he loaded his carbine. “There’ll be time enough,” he said to himself, laying on the ground the weapon which alone could bring him deliverance. Looking by turns at the black expanse and the blue expanse, the soldier dreamed of France—he smelt with delight the gutters of Paris—he remembered the towns through which he had passed, the faces of his fellow soldiers, the most minute details of his life. His southern fancy soon

439A PASS ION I N TH E DE S E RT showed him the stones of his beloved Provence, in the play of the heat which waved over the spread sheet of the desert. Fearing the danger of this cruel mirage, he went down the opposite side of the hill to that by which he had come up the day before. The remains of a rug showed that this place of refuge had at one time been inhabited; at a short distance he saw some palm trees full of dates. Then the instinct which binds us to life awoke again in his heart. He hoped to live long enough to await the passing of some Arabs, or perhaps he might hear the sound of cannon; for at this time Bonaparte was traversing Egypt. This thought gave him new life. The palm tree seemed to bend with the weight of the ripe fruit. He shook some of it down. When he tasted this unhoped-for manna, he felt sure that the palms had been cultivated by a former inhabitant—the savory, fresh meat of the dates was proof of the care of his predecessor. He passed suddenly from dark despair to an almost insane joy. He went up again to the top of the hill, and spent the rest of the day in cutting down one of the sterile palm trees, which the night before had served him for shelter. A vague memory made him think of the animals of the desert; and in case they might come to drink at the spring, visible from the base of the rocks but lost farther down, he resolved to guard himself from their visits by placing a barrier at the entrance of his hermitage. In spite of his diligence, and the strength which the fear of being devoured asleep gave him, he was unable to cut the palm in pieces, though he succeeded in cutting it down. At eventide the king of the desert fell; the sound of its fall resounded far and wide, like a sign in the solitude; the soldier shuddered as though he had heard some voice predicting woe. But like an heir who does not long bewail a deceased parent, he tore off from this beautiful tree the tall broad green leaves which are its poetic adornment, and used them to mend the mat on which he was to sleep. Fatigued by the heat and his work, he fell asleep under the red curtains of his wet cave. In the middle of the night his sleep was troubled by an extraordinary noise; he sat up, and the deep silence around him allowed him to distinguish the alternative accents of a respiration whose savage energy could not belong to a human creature. A profound terror, increased still further by the darkness, the silence, and his waking images, froze his heart within him. He almost felt his hair stand on end, when by straining his eyes to their utmost he perceived

440 Honoré de Balzac through the shadows two faint yellow lights. At first he attributed these lights to the reflection of his own pupils, but soon the vivid brilliance of the night aided him gradually to distinguish the objects around him in the cave, and he beheld a huge animal lying but two steps from him. Was it a lion, a tiger, or a crocodile? The Provençal was not educated enough to know under what species his enemy ought to be classed; but his fright was all the greater, as his ignorance led him to imagine all terrors at once; he endured a cruel torture, noting every variation of the breathing close to him without daring to make the slightest movement. An odor, pungent like that of a fox, but more penetrating, profounder—so to speak—filled the cave, and when the Provençal became sensible of this, his terror reached its height, for he could not longer doubt the proximity of a terrible companion, whose royal dwelling served him for shelter. Presently the reflection of the moon, descending on the horizon, lit up the den, rendering gradually visible and resplendent the spotted skin of a panther. The lion of Egypt slept, curled up like a big dog, the peaceful possessor of a sumptuous niche at the gate of a hotel; its eyes opened for a moment and closed again; its face was turned toward the man. A thousand confused thoughts passed through the Frenchman’s mind; first he thought of killing it with a bullet from his gun, but he saw there was not enough distance between them for him to take proper aim—the shot would miss the mark. And if it were to wake!—the thought made his limbs rigid. He listened to his own heart beating in the midst of the silence, and cursed the too violent pulsations which the flow of blood brought on, fearing to disturb that sleep which allowed him time to think of some means of escape. Twice he placed his hand on his scimitar, intending to cut off the head of his enemy; but the difficulty of cutting the stiff, short hair compelled him to abandon this daring project. To miss would be to die for certain, he thought; he preferred the chances of fair fight, and made up his mind to wait till morning; the morning did not leave him long to wait. He could now examine the panther at ease; its muzzle was smeared with blood. “She’s had a good dinner,” he thought, without troubling himself as to whether her feast might have been on human flesh. “She won’t be hungry when she gets up.” It was a female. The fur on her belly and flanks was glistening white; many small marks like velvet formed beautiful bracelets round her feet;

441A PASS ION I N TH E DE S E RT her sinuous tail was also white, ending with black rings; the overpart of her dress, yellow like unburnished gold, very lissome and soft, had the characteristic blotches in the form of rosettes, which distinguish the panther from every other feline species. This tranquil and formidable hostess snored in an attitude as graceful as that of a cat lying on a cushion. Her bloodstained paws, nervous and well armed, were stretched out before her face, which rested upon them, and from which radiated her straight, slender whiskers, like threads of silver. If she had been like that in a cage, the Provençal would doubtless have admired the grace of the animal, and the vigorous contrasts of vivid color which gave her robe an imperial splendor; but just then his sight was troubled by her sinister appearance. The presence of the panther, even asleep, could not fail to produce the effect which the magnetic eyes of the serpent are said to have on the nightingale. For a moment the courage of the soldier began to fail before this danger, though no doubt it would have risen at the mouth of a cannon charged with shell. Nevertheless, a bold thought brought daylight to his soul and sealed up the source of the cold sweat which sprang forth on his brow. Like men driven to bay who defy death and offer their body to the smiter, so he, seeing in this merely a tragic episode, resolved to play his part with honor to the last. “The day before yesterday the Arabs would have killed me perhaps,” he said; so considering himself as good as dead already, he waited bravely, with excited curiosity, his enemy’s awakening. When the sun appeared, the panther suddenly opened her eyes; then she put out her paws with energy, as if to stretch them and get rid of cramp. At last she yawned, showing the formidable apparatus of her teeth and pointed tongue, rough as a file. “A regular petite maîtresse” thought the Frenchman, seeing her roll herself about so softly and coquettishly. She licked off the blood which stained her paws and muzzle, and scratched her head with reiterated gestures full of prettiness. “All right, make a little toilet,” the Frenchman said to himself, beginning to recover his gaiety with his courage; “we’ll say good morning to each other presently,” and he seized the small, short dagger which he had taken from the Mangrabins. At this moment the panther turned her head toward the man and looked at him fixedly without moving. The rigidity of her metallic eyes and their insupportable luster made

442 Honoré de Balzac him shudder, especially when the animal walked toward him. But he looked at her caressingly, staring into her eyes in order to magnetize her, and let her come quite close to him; then with a movement both gentle and amorous, as though he were caressing the most beautiful of women, he passed his hand over her whole body, from the head to the tail, scratching the flexible vertebrae which divided the panther’s yellow back. The animal waved her tail voluptuously, and her eyes grew gentle; and when for the third time the Frenchman accomplished this interesting flattery, she gave forth one of those purrings by which our cats express their pleasure; but this murmur issued from a throat so powerful and so deep, that it resounded through the cave like the last vibrations of an organ in a church. The man, understanding the importance of his caresses, redoubled them in such a way as to surprise and stupefy his imperious courtesan. When he felt sure of having extinguished the ferocity of his capricious companion, whose hunger had so fortunately been satisfied the day before, he got up to go out of the cave; the panther let him go out, but when he had reached the summit of the hill she sprang with the lightness of a sparrow hopping from twig to twig, and rubbed herself against his legs, putting up her back after the manner of all the race of cats. Then regarding her guest with eyes whose glare had softened a little, she gave vent to that wild cry which naturalists compare to the grating of a saw. “She is exacting,” said the Frenchman, smilingly. He was bold enough to play with her ears; he caressed her belly and scratched her head as hard as he could. When he saw that he was successful, he tickled her skull with the point of his dagger, watching for the right moment to kill her, but the hardness of her bones made him tremble for his success. The sultana of the desert showed herself gracious to her slave; she lifted her head, stretched out her neck, and manifested her delight by the tranquillity of her attitude. It suddenly occurred to the soldier that to kill this savage princess with one blow he must poniard her in the throat. He raised the blade, when the panther, satisfied no doubt, laid herself gracefully at his feet, and cast up at him glances in which, in spite of their natural fierceness, was mingled confusedly a kind of good will. The poor Provençal ate his dates, leaning against one of the palm trees, and casting his eyes alternately on the desert in quest of some liberator and on his terrible companion to watch her uncertain clemency. The panther looked at the place where the date stones fell, and every time that he threw one down her eyes expressed an incredible mistrust.

443A PASS ION I N TH E DE S E RT She examined the man with an almost commercial prudence. However, this examination was favorable to him, for when he had finished his meager meal she licked his boots with her powerful rough tongue, brushing off with marvelous skill the dust gathered in the creases. “Ah, but when she’s really hungry!” thought the Frenchman. In spite of the shudder this thought caused him, the soldier began to measure curiously the proportions of the panther, certainly one of the most splendid specimens of its race. She was three feet high and four feet long without counting her tail; this powerful weapon, rounded like a cudgel, was nearly three feet long. The head, large as that of a lioness, was distinguished by a rare expression of refinement. The cold cruelty of a tiger was dominant, it was true, but there was also a vague resemblance to the face of a sensual woman. Indeed, the face of this solitary queen had something of the gaiety of a drunken Nero: she had satiated herself with blood, and she wanted to play. The soldier tried if he might walk up and down, and the panther left him free, contenting herself with following him with her eyes, less like a faithful dog than a big Angora cat, observing everything, and every movement of her master. When he looked around, he saw, by the spring, the remains of his horse; the panther had dragged the carcass all that way; about two-thirds of it had been devoured already. The sight reassured him. It was easy to explain the panther’s absence, and the respect she had had for him while he slept. The first piece of good luck emboldened him to tempt the future, and he conceived the wild hope of continuing on good terms with the panther during the entire day, neglecting no means of taming her, and remaining in her good graces. He returned to her, and had the unspeakable joy of seeing her wag her tail with an almost imperceptible movement at his approach. He sat down then, without fear, by her side, and they began to play together; he took her paws and muzzle, pulled her ears, rolled her over on her back, stroked her warm, delicate flanks. She let him do whatever he liked, and when he began to stroke the hair on her feet she drew her claws in carefully. The man, keeping the dagger in one hand, thought to plunge it into the belly of the too-confiding panther, but he was afraid that he would be immediately strangled in her last convulsive struggle; besides, he felt in his heart a sort of remorse which bid him respect a creature that had done him no harm. He seemed to have found a friend, in a boundless desert; half unconsciously he thought of his first sweetheart, whom he had

444 Honoré de Balzac nicknamed “Mignonne” by way of contrast, because she was so atrociously jealous that all the time of their love he was in fear of the knife with which she had always threatened him. This memory of his early days suggested to him the idea of making the young panther answer to this name, now that he began to admire with less terror her swiftness, suppleness, and softness. Toward the end of the day he had familiarized himself with his perilous position; he now almost liked the painfulness of it. At last his companion had got into the habit of looking up at him whenever he cried in a falsetto voice, “Mignonne.” At the setting of the sun Mignonne gave, several times running, a profound melancholy cry. “She’s been well brought up,” said the lighthearted soldier; “she says her prayers.” But this mental joke only occurred to him when he noticed what a pacific attitude his companion remained in. “Come, ma petite blonde, I’ll let you go to bed first,” he said to her, counting on the activity of his own legs to run away as quickly as possible, directly she was asleep, and seek another shelter for the night. The soldier waited with impatience the hour of his flight, and when it had arrived he walked vigorously in the direction of the Nile; but hardly had he made a quarter of a league in the sand when he heard the panther bounding after him, crying with that sawlike cry more dreadful even than the sound of her leaping. “Ah!” he said, “then she’s taken a fancy to me; she has never met any one before, and it is really quite flattering to have her first love.” That instant the man fell into one of those movable quicksands so terrible to travelers and from which it is impossible to save oneself. Feeling himself caught, he gave a shriek of alarm; the panther seized him with her teeth by the collar, and, springing vigorously backward, drew him as if by magic out of the whirling sand. “Ah, Mignonne!” cried the soldier, caressing her enthusiastically; “we’re bound together for life and death—but no jokes, mind!” and he retraced his steps. From that time the desert seemed inhabited. It contained a being to whom the man could talk, and whose ferocity was rendered gentle by him, though he could not explain to himself the reason for their strange friendship. Great as was the soldier’s desire to stay upon guard, he slept. On awakening he could not find Mignonne; he mounted the hill, and in the distance saw her springing toward him after the habit of these animals, who cannot run on account of the extreme flexibility of the vertebral column. Mignonne arrived, her jaws covered with blood; she received the wonted caress of her companion, showing with much purring

445A PASS ION I N TH E DE S E RT how happy it made her. Her eyes, full of languor, turned still more gently than the day before toward the Provençal, who talked to her as one would to a tame animal. “Ah! Mademoiselle, you are a nice girl, aren’t you? Just look at that! So we like to be made much of, don’t we? Aren’t you ashamed of yourself? So you have been eating some Arab or other, have you? That doesn’t matter. They’re animals just the same as you are; but don’t you take to eating Frenchmen, or I shan’t like you any longer.” She played like a dog with its master, letting herself be rolled over, knocked about, and stroked, alternately; sometimes she herself would provoke the soldier, putting up her paw with a soliciting gesture. Some days passed in this manner. This companionship permitted the Provençal to appreciate the sublime beauty of the desert; now that he had a living thing to think about, alternations of fear and quiet, and plenty to eat, his mind became filled with contrast and his life began to be diversified. Solitude revealed to him all her secrets, and enveloped him in her delights. He discovered in the rising and setting of the sun sights unknown to the world. He knew what it was to tremble when he heard over his head the hiss of a bird’s wing, so rarely did they pass, or when he saw the clouds, changing and many-colored travelers, melt one into another. He studied in the nighttime the effect of the moon upon the ocean of sand, where the simoom made waves swift of movement and rapid in their change. He lived the life of the Eastern day, marveling at its wonderful pomp; then, after having reveled in the sight of a hurricane over the plain where the whirling sands made red, dry mists and death- bearing clouds, he would welcome the night with joy, for then fell the healthful freshness of the stars, and he listened to imaginary music in the skies. Then solitude taught him to unroll the treasures of dreams. He passed whole hours in remembering mere nothings, and comparing his present life with his past. At last he grew passionately fond of the panther; for some sort of affection was a necessity. Whether it was that his will powerfully projected had modified the character of his companion, or whether, because she found abundant food in her predatory excursions in the desert, she respected the man’s life, he began to fear for it no longer, seeing her so well tamed. He devoted the greater part of his time to sleep, but he was obliged to watch like a spider in its web that the moment of his deliverance might not escape him, if anyone should pass the line marked by the

446 Honoré de Balzac horizon. He had sacrificed his shirt to make a flag, which he hung at the top of a palm tree, whose foliage he had torn off. Taught by necessity, he found the means of keeping it spread out, by fastening it with little sticks; for the wind might not be blowing at the moment when the passing traveler was looking through the desert. It was during the long hours, when he had abandoned hope, that he amused himself with the panther. He had come to learn the different inflections of her voice, the expressions of her eyes; he had studied the capricious patterns of all the rosettes which marked the gold of her robe. Mignonne was not even angry when he took hold of the tuft at the end of her tail to count her rings, those graceful ornaments which glittered in the sun like jewelry. It gave him pleasure to contemplate the supple, fine outlines of her form, the whiteness of her belly, the graceful pose of her head. But it was especially when she was playing that he felt most pleasure in looking at her; the agility and youthful lightness of her movements were a continual surprise to him; he wondered at the supple way in which she jumped and climbed, washed herself and arranged her fur, crouched down and prepared to spring. However rapid her spring might be, however slippery the stone she was on, she would always stop short at the word “Mignonne.” One day, in a bright midday sun, an enormous bird coursed through the air. The man left his panther to look at this new guest; but after waiting a moment the deserted sultana growled deeply. “My goodness! I do believe she’s jealous,” he cried, seeing her eyes become hard again; “the soul of Virginie has passed into her body; that’s certain.” The eagle disappeared into the air, while the soldier admired the curved contour of the panther. But there were such youth and grace in her form! She was beautiful as a woman! The blond fur of her robe mingled well with the delicate tints of faint white which marked her flanks. The profuse light cast down by the sun made this living gold, these russet markings, to burn in a way to give them an indefinable attraction. The man and the panther looked at one another with a look full of meaning; the coquette quivered when she felt her friend stroke her head; her eyes flashed like lightning—then she shut them tightly. “She has a soul,” he said, looking at the stillness of this queen of the sands, golden like them, white like them, solitary and burning like them. “Well,” she said, “I have read your plea in favor of beasts; but how did two so well adapted to understand each other end?”

447A PASS ION I N TH E DE S E RT “Ah, well! you see, they ended as all great passions do end—by a misunderstanding. For some reason one suspects the other of treason; they don’t come to an explanation through pride, and quarrel and part from sheer obstinacy.” “Yet sometimes at the best moments a single word or a look is enough— but anyhow go on with your story.” “It’s horribly difficult, but you will understand, after what the old villain told me over his champagne. “He said, ‘I don’t know if I hurt her, but she turned round, as if enraged, and with her sharp teeth caught hold of my leg—gently, I daresay; but I, thinking she would devour me, plunged my dagger into her throat. She rolled over, giving a cry that froze my heart; and I saw her dying, still looking at me without anger. I would have given all the world—my cross even, which I had not got then—to have brought her to life again. It was as though I had murdered a real person; and the soldiers who had seen my flag, and had come to my assistance, found me in tears. “ ‘Well sir,’ he said, after a moment of silence, ‘since then I have been in war in Germany, in Spain, in Russia, in France; I’ve certainly carried my carcass about a good deal, but never have I seen anything like the desert. Ah! yes, it is very beautiful!’ “ ‘What did you feel there?’ I asked him. “ ‘Oh! that can’t be described, young man. Besides, I am not always regretting my palm trees and my panther. I should have to be very melancholy for that. In the desert, you see, there is everything, and nothing.’ “ ‘Yes, but explain—’ “ ‘Well,’ he said, with an impatient gesture, ‘it is God without mankind.’ ”

448 Anton Chekhov 1860–1904 Anton Chekhov was born in Taganrog, Russia, on January 17(Old Style), 1860. His grandfather, a serf, saved 3,500 rubles and bought his family’s freedom. Anton took a medical degree at the University of Moscow. During this period he helped support his family by writing for the Moscow comic papers. His first book went unnoticed, but a second, Motley Stories, published in 1886, became broadly popular. In the following year his first play, Ivanov, pleased audiences in Moscow and St. Petersburg. He was awarded the Pushkin Prize. In 1890–91 he traveled across the great breadth of Russia to investigate the penal colony on Sakhalin Island, north of Japan. His exposé of conditions there helped to bring about prison reforms. He bought a small estate outside Moscow and lived there during most of the 1890’s. He did medical work among the peasants, especially during the cholera epidemic of 1892–93, and served as a hospital administrator. These and other experiences gave him material for the short stories he continued to produce all his life. In 1896 his second play, The Seagull, was a failure in the St. Petersburg production but a decided success in the Moscow Art Theater version two years later. The onset of tuberculosis forced him to spend most of his time in the Crimea or abroad. From the Notes from the artist: “. . . the portrait of Chekhov was done in a contemporary interpretation of early Russian iconography. In the author’s hand is a sprig of cherry leaves, symbolizing his famous play The Cherry Orchard.”

450 Anton Chekhov late 1890’s most of his work was done for the theater—not, as he said, because he preferred it, but because it gave him a better income. The Moscow Art Theater under Stanislavsky produced Uncle Vanya (a rewriting of The Wood Demon) in 1899, The Three Sisters in 1901, and The Cherry Orchard in 1904. Chekhov married the actress Olga Knipper in 1901. Some of his best stories—The Darling (see below), The Bishop, My Life, and In the Ravine—were written during this final period. He died at Badenweiler in the Black Forest on July 2 (O. S.), 1904. The work of Chekhov, says the critic Arnold Hauser, gives theeffect of “something overheard by chance, intimated by chance, something that has occurred by chance.” Is this true? Insofar as it is, we note how it goes against what was perhaps the chief tendency in late-nineteenth-century literature. This was determinism, the idea that social conditions operate as a kind of fate predictable in advance. Taine became its literary prophet. It was worked out in fiction by such writers as Zola, the Goncourts, and even Maupassant. But in the free-will stories of Chekhov, chance itself often plays the part of a kind of sad fatality. This is truer, we feel, of the early stories than of such a late one as The Darling, published in 1898. But what is chance? Tolstoy considered it a kind of ignorance or partial knowledge, “a certain stage of understanding of phenomena.” Mathematicians have tried to frame it in formulas of probability. But we need to remember that here we are dealing, not with chance in the open, but with the effect of chance as the artist creates it. The Romans had their goddess Fortuna. The Greek goddess of chance was Tyche, mistress of “whatever may happen,” who was “stronger than the rule of Zeus.” Chekhov’s heroine, too, is a kind of goddess—Olenka Plemyannikova, “the darling,” daughter of a retired assessor in a provincial Russian town, She is altogether a woman, and more than that. She is the goddess Woman—Woman who accomplishes her immemorial purposes in spite of every misfortune. Olenka is, in fact, more Aphrodite, goddess of erotic love, than Tyche. She is philanthropic in the basic sense. She loves people, and—with the usual reaction—they love her. She has a gift—a sometimes embarrassing gift—for total intimacy. She identifies her-

451Anton Chekhov self with anyone she loves. She is infinitely suggestible. Her life becomes almost a demonstration of the myth that man and woman are orphan halves of each other.1 But Olenka’s gift as Tyche, goddess of fortune, is displayed in the misfortunes she survives and the dangers she avoids. Her temperament might easily have made her a victim—exploited by other people, starved by her inability to find love, or unable to get along with it when it came to her. The human chances are endless. Even so, we cannot help but believe in the pattern the author lays down for us. The power and warmth of her instinct carry her triumphantly over every misfortune. A more imaginative, even a more restless, woman might have made more demands on life. Olenka plays according to the easy human rules. In each case, she finds it possible to love the most convenient object—her father, her teacher, the theater manager Kukin, the merchant Pustovalov, Smirnin the veterinary. And even when she has “aged and grown homely,” straining against the lack of a child, luck does not abandon her. The veterinary’s boy Sasha becomes the recipient of her final absorption in love. 1 See Plato’s Symposium, Great Books of the Western World.

452 The Darling lenka Plemyannikova, the daughter of a retired collegiate assessor, was sitting on her porch, which gave on the courtyard, deep in thought. It was hot, the flies were persistent and annoying, and it was pleasant to think that it would soon be evening. Dark rainclouds were gathering in the east and there was a breath of moisture in the wind that occasionally blew from that direction. Kukin, a theater manager who ran a summer garden known as The Tivoli and lodged in the wing of the house, was standing in the middle of the courtyard, staring at the sky. “Again!” he was saying in despair. “It’s going to rain again! Rain every day, every day, as if to spite me! It will be the death of me! It’s ruin! Such a frightful loss every day!” He struck his hands together and continued, turning to Olenka: “There, Olga Semyonovna, that’s our life. It’s enough to make you weep! You work, you try your utmost, you wear yourself out, you lie awake nights, you rack your brains trying to make a better thing of it, and what’s the upshot? In the first place, the public is ignorant, barbarous. I give them the very best operetta, an elaborate spectacle, first-rate vaudeville artists. But do you think they want that? It’s all above their heads. All they want is slapstick! Give them trash! And then look at the weather! Rain almost every evening. It started raining on the tenth of May, and it has kept it up all May and June. It’s simply terrible! The public doesn’t come, but don’t I have to pay the rent? Don’t I have to pay the artists?” The next day toward evening the sky would again be overcast and Kukin would say, laughing hysterically: “Well, go on, rain! Flood the garden, drown me! Bad luck to me in this world and the next! Let the artists sue me! Let them send me to prison—to Siberia—to the scaffold! Ha, ha, ha!”

453TH E DARLI NG The next day it was the same thing all over again. Olenka listened to Kukin silently, gravely, and sometimes tears would come to her eyes. In the end his misfortunes moved her and she fell in love with him. He was a short, thin man with a sallow face, and wore his hair combed down over his temples. He had a thin tenor voice and when he spoke, his mouth twisted, and his face perpetually wore an expression of despair. Nevertheless he aroused a genuine, deep feeling in her. She was always enamored of someone and could not live otherwise. At first it had been her papa, who was now ill and sat in an armchair in a darkened room, breathing with difficulty. Then she had devoted her affections to her aunt, who used to come from Bryansk every other year. Still earlier, when she went to school, she had been in love with her French teacher. She was a quiet, kind, softhearted girl, with meek, gentle eyes, and she enjoyed very good health. At the sight of her full pink cheeks, her soft white neck with a dark birthmark on it, and the kind artless smile that came into her face when she listened to anything pleasant, men said to themselves, “Yes, not half bad,” and smiled too, while the ladies present could not refrain from suddenly seizing her hand in the middle of the conversation and exclaiming delightedly, “You darling!” The house in which she lived all her life, and which was to be hers by her father’s will, was situated on the outskirts of the city on what was known as Gypsy Road, not far from The Tivoli. In the evening and at night she could hear the band play and the skyrockets go off, and it seemed to her that it was Kukin fighting his fate and assaulting his chief enemy, the apathetic public. Her heart contracted sweetly, she had no desire to sleep, and when he returned home at dawn, she would tap softly at her bedroom window and, showing him only her face and one shoulder through the curtain, give him a friendly smile. He proposed to her, and they were married. And when he had a good look at her neck and her plump firm shoulders, he struck his hands together, and exclaimed, “Darling!” He was happy, but as it rained on their wedding day and the night that followed, the expression of despair did not leave his face. As a married couple, they got on well together. She presided over the box office, looked after things in the summer garden, kept accounts and paid salaries; and her rosy cheeks, the radiance of her sweet artless smile showed now in the box-office window, now in the wings of the theater, now at the buffet. And she was already telling her friends that the thea-

454 Anton Chekhov ter was the most remarkable, the most important, and the most essential thing in the world, and that it was only the theater that could give true pleasure and make you a cultivated and humane person. “But do you suppose the public understands that?” she would ask. “What it wants is slapstick! Yesterday we gave ‘Faust Inside Out,’ and almost all the boxes were empty, and if Vanichka and I had put on something vulgar, I assure you the theater would have been packed. Tomorrow Vanichka and I are giving ‘Orpheus in Hell.’ Do come.” And what Kukin said about artists and the theater she would repeat. Like him she despised the public for its ignorance and indifference to art; she took a hand in the rehearsals, correcting the actors, kept an eye on the musicians, and when there was an unfavorable notice in the local paper, she wept and went to see the editor about it. The actors were fond of her and called her “the darling,” and “Vanichka-and-I.” She was sorry for them and would lend them small sums, and if they cheated her, she cried in private but did not complain to her husband. The pair got on just as well together when winter came. They leased the municipal theater for the season and sublet it for short periods to a Ukrainian troupe, a magician, or a local dramatic club. Olenka was gaining weight and beamed with happiness, but Kukin was getting thinner and more sallow and complained of terrible losses, although business was fairly good during the winter. He coughed at night, and she would make him drink an infusion of raspberries and linden blossoms, rub him with Eau de Cologne and wrap him in her soft shawls. “What a sweet thing you are!” she would say quite sincerely, smoothing his hair. “My handsome sweet!” At Lent he left for Moscow to engage a company of actors for the summer season, and she could not sleep with him away. She sat at the window and watched the stars. It occurred to her that she had something in common with the hens: they too stayed awake all night and were disturbed when the cock was absent from the henhouse. Kukin was detained in Moscow, and wrote that he would return by Easter, and in his letters he sent instructions about The Tivoli. But on the Monday of Passion Week, late in the evening, there was a sudden ominous knock at the gate; someone was banging at the wicket as though it were a barrel— boom, boom, boom! The sleepy cook, her bare feet splashing through the puddles, ran to open the gate. “Open, please!” someone on the other side of the gate was saying in a deep voice. “There’s a telegram for you.”

455TH E DARLI NG Olenka had received telegrams from her husband before, but this time for some reason she was numb with fright. With trembling hands she opened the telegram and read the following: “Ivan Petrovich died suddenly today awaiting prot instructions tuneral Tuesday.” That is exactly how the telegram had it: “tuneral,” and there was also the incomprehensible word “prot”; the signature was that of the director of the comic opera company. “My precious!” Olenka sobbed. “Vanichka, my precious, my sweet! Why did we ever meet! Why did I get to know you and to love you! To whom can your poor unhappy Olenka turn?” Kukin was buried on Tuesday in the Vagankovo Cemetery in Moscow. Olenka returned home on Wednesday, and no sooner did she enter her room than she sank onto the bed and sobbed so loudly that she could be heard in the street and in the neighboring courtyards. “The darling!” said the neighbors, crossing themselves. “Darling Olga Semyonovna! How the poor soul takes on!” Three months later Olenka was returning from Mass one day in deep mourning and very sad. It happened that one of her neighbors, Vasily Andreich Pustovalov, the manager of Babakayev’s lumberyard, who was also returning from church, was walking beside her. He was wearing a straw hat and a white waistcoat, with a gold watch chain, and he looked more like a landowner than a businessman. “There is order in all things, Olga Semyonovna,” he was saying sedately, with a note of sympathy in his voice; “and if one of our dear ones passes on, then it means that this was the will of God, and in that case we must keep ourselves in hand and bear it submissively.” Having seen Olenka to her gate, he took leave of her and went further. All the rest of the day she heard his sedate voice, and as soon as she closed her eyes she had a vision of his dark beard. She liked him very much. And apparently she too had made an impression on him, because a little later a certain elderly lady, whom she scarcely knew, called to have coffee with her, and no sooner was she seated at table than the visitor began to talk about Pustovalov, saying that he was a fine, substantial man, and that any marriageable woman would be glad to go to the altar with him. Three days later Pustovalov himself paid her a visit. He did not stay more than ten minutes and he said little, but Olenka fell in love with him, so deeply that she stayed awake all night burning as with fever, and in the morning she sent for the elderly lady. The match was soon arranged and then came the wedding.

456 Anton Chekhov As a married couple Pustovalov and Olenka got on very well together. As a rule he was in the lumberyard till dinnertime, then he went out on business and was replaced by Olenka, who stayed in the office till evening, making out bills and seeing that orders were shipped. “We pay twenty per cent more for lumber every year,” she would say to customers and acquaintances. “Why, we used to deal in local timber, and now Vasichka has to travel to the province of Mogilev for timber regularly. And the freight rates!” she would exclaim, putting her hands to her cheeks in horror. “The freight rates!” It seemed to her that she had been in the lumber business for ages, that lumber was the most important, the most essential thing in the world, and she found something intimate and touching in the very sound of such words as beam, log, batten, plank, boxboard, lath, scantling, slab. . . . At night she would dream of whole mountains of boards and planks, of endless caravans of carts hauling lumber out of town to distant points. She would dream that a regiment of beams, 28 feet by 8 inches, standing on end, was marching in the lumberyard, that beams, logs, and slabs were crashing against each other with the hollow sound of dry wood, that they kept tumbling down and rising again, piling themselves on each other. Olenka would scream in her sleep and Pustovalov would say to her tenderly: “Olenka, what’s the matter, darling? Cross yourself!” Whatever ideas her husband had, she adopted as her own. If he thought that the room was hot or that business was slow, she thought so too. Her husband did not care for entertainments and on holidays stayed home— so did she. “You are always at home or in the office,” her friends would say. “You ought to go to the theater, darling, or to the circus.” “Vasichka and I have no time for the theater,” she would answer sedately. “We are working people, we’re not interested in such foolishness. What good are these theaters?” On Saturdays the two of them would go to evening service, on holidays they attended early Mass, and returning from the church they walked side by side, their faces wearing a softened expression. There was an agreeable aroma about them, and her silk dress rustled pleasantly. At home they had tea with shortbread, and various kinds of jam, and afterwards they ate pie. Every day at noon, in the yard and on the street just outside the gate, there was a delicious smell of borshch and roast lamb or duck, and on fast days there was the odor of fish, and one could not pass the Pustovalov gate without one’s mouth watering. In the office the samovar was always boiling and the customers were

457TH E DARLI NG treated to tea with doughnuts. Once a week the pair went to the baths and returned side by side, both with red faces. “Yes, everything goes well with us, thank God,” Olenka would say to her friends. “I wish everyone were as happy as Vasichka and I.” When Pustovalov went off to the provinces of Mogilev for timber, she missed him badly and lay awake nights, crying. Sometimes, in the evening, a young army veterinary, by the name of Smirnin, who rented the wing of their house, would call on her. He chatted or played cards with her and that diverted her. What interested her most was what he told her about his domestic life. He had been married and had a son, but was separated from his wife because she had been unfaithful to him, and now he hated her; he sent her forty rubles a month for the maintenance of the child. And listening to him, Olenka would sigh and shake her head: she was sorry for him. “Well, God keep you,” she would say to him as she took leave of him, going to the stairs with him, candle in hand. “Thank you for relieving my boredom, and may the Queen of Heaven give you health!” She always expressed herself in this sedate and reasonable manner, in imitation of her husband. Just as the veterinary would be closing the door behind him, she would recall him and say: “You know, Vladimir Platonych, you had better make up with your wife. You ought to forgive her, at least for your son’s sake! I am sure the little boy understands everything.” And when Pustovalov came back, she would tell him in low tones about the veterinary and his unhappy domestic life, and both of them would sigh and shake their heads and speak of the boy, who was probably missing his father. Then by a strange association of ideas they would both turn to the icons, bow down to the ground before them and pray that the Lord would grant them children. Thus the Pustovalovs lived in peace and quiet, in love and harmony for six years. But one winter day, right after having hot tea at the office, Vasily Andreich went out without his cap to see about shipping some lumber, caught a chill and was taken sick. He was treated by the best doctors, but the illness had its own way with him, and he died after four months. Olenka was a widow again. “To whom can I turn now, my darling?” she sobbed when she had buried her husband. “How can I live without you, wretched and unhappy as I am? Pity me, good people, left all alone in the world—” She wore a black dress with white cuffs and gave up wearing hat and gloves for good. She hardly ever left the house except to go to church or

458 Anton Chekhov to visit her husband’s grave, and at home she lived like a nun. Only at the end of six months did she take off her widow’s weeds and open the shutters. Sometimes in the morning she was seen with her cook going to market for provisions, but how she lived now and what went on in her house could only be guessed. People based their guesses on such facts as that they saw her having tea with the veterinary in her little garden, he reading the newspaper aloud to her, and that, meeting an acquaintance at the post office, she would say: “There is no proper veterinary inspection in our town, and that’s why there is so much illness around. So often you hear of people getting ill from the milk or catching infections from horses and cows. When you come down to it, the health of domestic animals must be as well cared for as the health of human beings.” She now repeated the veterinary’s words and held the same opinions about everything that he did. It was plain that she could not live even for one year without an attachment and that she had found new happiness in the wing of her house. Another woman would have been condemned for this, but of Olenka no one could think ill: everything about her was so unequivocal. Neither she nor the veterinary mentioned to anyone the change that had occurred in their relations indeed, they tried to conceal it, but they didn’t succeed, because Olenka could not keep a secret. When he had visitors, his regimental colleagues, she, pouring the tea or serving the supper, would begin to talk of the cattle plague, of the pearl disease, of the municipal slaughterhouses. He would be terribly embarrassed and when the guests had gone, he would grasp her by the arms and hiss angrily: “I’ve asked you before not to talk about things that you don’t understand! When veterinaries speak among themselves, please don’t butt in! It’s really annoying!” She would look at him amazed and alarmed and ask, “But Volodichka, what shall I talk about?” And with tears in her eyes she would hug him and beg him not to be angry, and both of them were happy. Yet this happiness did not last long. The veterinary left, left forever, with his regiment, which was moved to some remote place, it may have been Siberia. And Olenka remained alone. Now she was quite alone. Her father had died long ago, and his armchair stood in the attic, covered with dust and minus one leg. She got thinner and lost her looks, and passers-by in the street did not glance at her and smile as they used to. Obviously, her best years were over, were

459TH E DARLI NG behind her, and now a new kind of life was beginning for her, an unfamiliar kind that did not bear thinking of. In the evening Olenka sat on her porch, and heard the band play at The Tivoli and the rockets go off, but this no longer suggested anything to her mind. She looked apathetically at the empty courtyard, thought of nothing, and later, when night came, she would go to bed and dream of the empty courtyard. She ate and drank as though involuntarily. Above all, and worst of all, she no longer had any opinions whatever. She saw objects about her and understood what was going on, but she could not form an opinion about anything and did not know what to talk about. And how terrible it is not to have any opinions! You see, for instance, a bottle, or the rain, or a peasant driving in a cart, but what is the bottle for, or the rain, or the peasant, what is the meaning of them, you can’t tell, and you couldn’t, even if they paid you a thousand rubles. When Kukin was about, or Pustovalov or, later, the veterinary, Olenka could explain it all and give her opinions about anything you like, but now there was the same emptiness in her head and in her heart as in her courtyard. It was weird, and she felt as bitter as if she had been eating wormwood. Little by little the town was extending in all directions. Gypsy Road was now a regular street, and where The Tivoli had been and the lumber- yards, houses had sprung up and lanes had multiplied. How swiftly time passes! Olenka’s house had taken on a shabby look, the roof was rusty, the shed sloped, and the whole yard was invaded by burdock and stinging nettles. Olenka herself had aged and grown homely. In the summer she sat on the porch, feeling empty and dreary and bitter, as before; in the winter she sat by the window and stared at the snow. Sometimes at the first breath of spring or when the wind brought her the chime of church bells, memories of the past would overwhelm her, her heart would contract sweetly and her eyes would brim over with tears. But this only lasted a moment, and then there was again emptiness and once more she was possessed by a sense of the futility of life; Trot, the black kitten, rubbed against her and purred softly, but Olenka was not affected by these feline caresses. Is that what she needed? She needed an affection that would take possession of her whole being, her soul, her mind, that would give her ideas, a purpose in life, that would warm her aging blood. And she would shake the kitten off her lap, and say irritably: “Scat! Scat! Don’t stick to me!” And so it went, day after day, year after year, and no joy, no opinion! Whatever Mavra the cook would say was well enough.

460 Anton Chekhov One hot July day, toward evening, when the cattle were being driven home and the yard was filled with clouds of dust, suddenly someone knocked at the gate. Olenka herself went to open it and was dumfounded at what she saw: at the gate stood Smirnin, the veterinary, already gray, and wearing civilian clothes. She suddenly recalled everything and, unable to control herself, burst into tears, silently letting her head drop on his breast. She was so agitated that she scarcely noticed how the two of them entered the house and sat down to tea. “My dear,” she murmured, trembling with joy, “Vladimir Platonych, however did you get here?” “I have come here for good,” he explained. “I have retired from the army and want to see what it’s like to be on my own and live a settled life. And besides, my son is ready for high school. I have made up with my wife, you know.” “Where is she?” “She’s at the hotel with the boy, and I’m out looking for lodgings.” “Goodness, Vladimir Platonych, take my house! You don’t need to look further! Good Lord, and you can have it free,” exclaimed Olenka, all in a flutter and beginning to cry again. “You live here in the house, and the wing will do for me. Heavens, I’m so glad!” The next day they began painting the roof and whitewashing the walls, and Olenka, her arms akimbo, walked about the yard, giving orders. The old smile had come back to her face, and she was lively and spry, as though she had waked from a long sleep. Presently the veterinary’s wife arrived, a thin, homely lady with bobbed hair who looked as if she were given to caprices. With her was the little boy, Sasha, small for his age (he was going on ten), chubby, with clear blue eyes and dimples in his cheeks. No sooner did he walk into the yard than he began chasing the cat, and immediately his eager, joyous laughter rang out. “Auntie, is that your cat?” he asked Olenka. “When she has little ones, please give us a kitten. Mama is terribly afraid of mice.” Olenka chatted with him, then gave him tea, and her heart suddenly grew warm and contracted sweetly, as if this little boy were her own son. And in the evening, as he sat in the dining room doing his homework, she looked at him with pity and tenderness and whispered: “My darling, my pretty one, my little one! How blond you are, and so clever!” “An island,” he was reciting from the book, “is a body of land entirely surrounded by water.”

461TH E DARLI NG “An island is a body of land . . .” she repeated and this was the first opinion she expressed with conviction after so many years of silence and mental vacuity. She now had opinions of her own, and at supper she had a conversation with Sasha’s parents, saying that studying in high school was hard on the children, but that nevertheless the classical course was better than the scientific one because a classical education opened all careers to you: you could be either a doctor or an engineer. Sasha started going to high school. His mother went off to Kharkov to visit her sister and did not come back; every day his father left town to inspect herds and sometimes he stayed away for three days together, and it seemed to Olenka that Sasha was wholly abandoned, that he was unwanted, that he was being starved, and she moved him into the wing with her and settled him in a little room there. For six months now Sasha has been living in her wing. Every morning Olenka comes into his room; he is fast asleep, his hand under his cheek, breathing quietly. She is sorry to wake him. “Sashenka,” she says sadly, “get up, my sweet! It’s time to go to school.” He gets up, dresses, says his prayers, and sits down to his breakfast: he drinks three glasses of tea and eats two large doughnuts, and half a buttered French roll. He is hardly awake and consequently cross. “You haven’t learned the fable, Sashenka,” says Olenka, looking at him as though she were seeing him off on a long journey. “You worry me. You must do your best, darling, study. And pay attention to your teachers.” “Please leave me alone!” says Sasha. Then he walks down the street to school, a small boy in a big cap, with his books in a rucksack. Olenka follows him noiselessly. “Sashenka!” she calls after him. He turns around and she thrusts a date or a caramel into his hand. When they turn into the school lane, he feels ashamed at being followed by a tall stout woman; he looks round and says: “You’d better go home, auntie; I can go alone now.” She stands still and stares after him until he disappears at the school entrance. How she loves him! Not one of her former attachments was so deep; never had her soul surrendered itself so unreservedly, so disinterestedly and with such joy as now when her maternal instinct was increasingly asserting itself. For this little boy who was not her own, for the dimples in his cheeks, for his very cap, she would have laid down her life, would have laid it down with joy, with tears of tenderness. Why? But who knows why?

462 Anton Chekhov Having seen Sasha off to school, she goes quietly home, contented, tranquil, brimming over with love; her face, grown younger in the last six months, beams with happiness; people meeting her look at her with pleasure and say: “Good morning, Olga Semyonovna, darling! How are you, darling?” “They make the children work so hard at high school nowadays,” she says, as she does her marketing. “Think of it: yesterday in the first form they had a fable to learn by heart, a Latin translation and a problem for homework. That’s entirely too much for a little fellow.” And she talks about the teachers, the lessons, the textbooks—saying just what Sasha says about them. At three o’clock they have dinner together, in the evening they do the homework together, and cry. When she puts him to bed, she takes a long time making the sign of the cross over him and whispering prayers. Then she goes to bed and thinks of the future, distant and misty, when Sasha, having finished his studies, will become a doctor or an engineer, will have a large house of his own, horses, a carriage, will marry and become a father. She falls asleep and her dreams are of the same thing, and tears flow down her cheeks from her closed eyes. The black kitten lies beside her purring: Purr-purrr-purrr. Suddenly there is a loud knock at the gate. Olenka wakes up, breathless with fear, her heart palpitating. Half a minute passes, and there is another knock. “That’s a telegram from Kharkov,” she thinks, beginning to tremble from head to foot. “Sasha’s mother is sending for him from Kharkov—O Lord!” She is in despair. Her head, her hands, her feet grow chill and it seems to her that she is the most unhappy woman in the whole world. But another minute passes, voices are heard: it’s the veterinary returning from the club. “Well, thank God!” she thinks. Little by little the load rolls off her heart and she is again at ease; she goes back to bed and thinks of Sasha who is fast asleep in the next room and sometimes shouts in his sleep: “I’ll give it to you! Scram! No fighting!” Translated by Avrahm Yarmolinsky.

463 Isaac Singer 1904–1991 Isaac Bashevis Singer was born in Poland in 1904. He attended arabbinical seminary in Warsaw and then began to write fiction in Hebrew, later turning to Yiddish. He went to the United States in 1935 and settled in New York. He has been on the staff of the Jewish Daily Forward since that time. Most of Singer’s stories, which he has been writing for more than thirty years, have appeared in the Jewish Daily Forward, in Yiddish, but they have been translated and have been published in many anthologies. In addition, two collections of his stories have appeared: Gimpel the Fool and Other Stories (1957) and The Spinoza of Market Street and Other Stories (1961), the title story of which is reprinted here. He is also the author of three novels: The Family Moskat (1950), which won the Louis Lamed Prize, Satan in Goray (1955), and The Slave (1962). The last is an heroic story of a Jew in Poland in the eighteenth century. Spinoza was a Jew, but aside from that fact he would seem to havelittle in common with the characters that inhabit most of Singer’s stories. These characters are ordinary, often simple folk (though they may be deeply versed in Jewish tradition), on the one hand, and strange demonic creatures of the imagination, on the other. Singer’s world is mad and unreal, from one point of view. Witches and mystical forces take on a kind of weird, topsy-turvy life. His heroes and heroines seem to be listening to voices that other people do not hear. Spinoza was neither ordinary, simple, nor demonic. His thought was complex and powerful, but it was also clear. The clarity and

464 Isaac Singer purity of Spinoza’s ideas are among the wonders of philosophy. Nevertheless, Singer has managed to make him a character in the story that follows. At first glance, it might almost seem that Spinoza is another of those strange, half-real figures that people the minds of Singer’s heroes. Spinoza seems to be almost as real to the main protagonist of this story, Dr. Fischelson, as the other living people in it. In a score of Singer stories there is a figure that plays much the same role. But Spinoza in this remarkable story plays another role, too. He is more than a mere figment of the imagination who has, nevertheless, a part in the action. He is also a great philosopher with a compelling view of the world. What is this view, as Singer, or perhaps only Dr. Fischelson, understands it? Spinoza stands for, and describes with magnificent eloquence, the eternal aspect of our ever changing, muddled, incomprehensible life. That eternal aspect, which is represented in this story by the stars, is not an illusion. But neither is the muddle that is represented in turn by the insects circling “the trembling flame,” then by Dr. Fischelson’s intestinal troubles, then by the crowd in Market Street seen from Dr. Fischelson’s high window, then by the “savage and passionate” cats which offend the hero, and finally by Black Dobbe, Dr. Fischelson’s bride. But the eternal aspect and the muddle do not, at least in this story, merely exist side by side. Perhaps they never do. Here at any rate they are in conflict. At the beginning of the story Dr. Fischelson runs to his window to see the stars in order to escape the heat and the buzzing insects. But at the window he sees not only the eternal stars but also the “half-lit bedlam” below and the “ignorant savage” of a cat. Life cannot be run away from; the muddle attacks Dr. Fischelson even in his own insides. He then, it seems, attempts to make his peace with it. He marries, he becomes a husband, he even, we are given to understand, loves. Yet he rises from his bed on his wedding night and seeks the stars once more. And he cries out to Spinoza, to the permanent, unchanging, eternal universe, that he has become a fool. His heartfelt words raise many questions. In uttering them, does Dr. Fischelson once and for all renounce the earthbound happiness which may be all that we creatures of the muddle know? Does he turn his back on his love for Black Dobbe and embrace once more the amor dei intellectualis [the intellectual love of god]?

465Isaac Singer Is that one moment of passionate involvement in life to be his last? Or does he speak those last words with a kind of profound humility and acceptance? Is he saying that there are worse things than to be a fool? Is he asking for forgiveness because he, uniquely, has acted foolishly, or because foolishness is man’s eternal lot? The essence of this memorable tale is to be found in those last murmured words. Perhaps every reader will have to find it, and answer the questions raised by the words, for himself.

466 The Spinoza of Market Street r. Nahum Fischelson paced back and forth in his garret room in Market Street, Warsaw. Dr. Fischelson was a short, hunched man with a grayish beard, and was quite bald except for a few wisps of hair remaining at the nape of the neck. His nose was as crooked as a beak and his eyes were large, dark, and fluttering like those of some huge bird. It was a hot summer evening, but Dr. Fischelson wore a black coat which reached to his knees, and he had on a stiff collar and a bow tie. From the door he paced slowly to the dormer window set high in the slanting room and back again. One had to mount several steps to look out. A candle in a brass holder was burning on the table and a variety of insects buzzed around the flame. Now and again one of the creatures would fly too close to the fire and sear its wings, or one would ignite and glow on the wick for an instant. At such moments Dr. Fischelson grimaced. His wrinkled face would twitch and beneath his disheveled moustache he would bite his lips. Finally he took a handkerchief from his pocket and waved it at the insects. “Away from there, fools and imbeciles,” he scolded. “You won’t get warm here; you’ll only burn yourself.” The insects scattered but a second later returned and once more circled the trembling flame. Dr. Fischelson wiped the sweat from his wrinkled forehead and sighed, “Like men they desire nothing but the pleasure of the moment.” On the table lay an open book written in Latin, and on its broad-margined pages were notes and comments printed in small letters by Dr. Fischelson. The book was Spinoza’s Ethics and Dr. Fischelson had been studying it for the last thirty years. He knew every proposition, every proof, every corollary, every note by heart. When he wanted to find a particular passage, he generally opened to the place immediately with-

467TH E S P I NOZA OF MARKET STRE ET out having to search for it. But, nevertheless, he continued to study the Ethics for hours every day with a magnifying glass in his bony hand, murmuring and nodding his head in agreement. The truth was that the more Dr. Fischelson studied, the more puzzling sentences, unclear passages, and cryptic remarks he found. Each sentence contained hints unfathomed by any of the students of Spinoza. Actually the philosopher had anticipated all of the criticisms of pure reason made by Kant and his followers. Dr. Fischelson was writing a commentary on the Ethics. He had drawers full of notes and drafts, but it didn’t seem that he would ever be able to complete his work. The stomach ailment which had plagued him for years was growing worse from day to day. Now he would get pains in his stomach after only a few mouthfuls of oatmeal. “God in Heaven, it’s difficult, very difficult,” he would say to himself using the same intonation as had his father, the late Rabbi of Tishevitz. “It’s very, very hard.” Dr. Fischelson was not afraid of dying. To begin with, he was no longer a young man. Secondly, it is stated in the fourth part of the Ethics that “a free man thinks of nothing less than of death and his wisdom is a meditation not of death, but of life.” Thirdly, it is also said that “the human mind cannot be absolutely destroyed with the human body but there is some part of it that remains eternal.” And yet Dr. Fischelson’s ulcer (or perhaps it was a cancer) continued to bother him. His tongue was always coated. He belched frequently and emitted a different foul-smelling gas each time. He suffered from heartburn and cramps. At times he felt like vomiting and at other times he was hungry for garlic, onions, and fried foods. He had long ago discarded the medicines prescribed for him by the doctors and had sought his own remedies. He found it beneficial to take grated radish after meals and lie on his bed, belly down, with his head hanging over the side. But these home remedies offered only temporary relief. Some of the doctors he consulted insisted there was nothing the matter with him. “It’s just nerves,” they told him. “You could live to be a hundred.” But on this particular hot summer night, Dr. Fischelson felt his strength ebbing. His knees were shaky, his pulse weak. He sat down to read and his vision blurred. The letters on the page turned from green to gold. The lines became waved and jumped over each other, leaving white gaps as if the text had disappeared in some mysterious way. The heat was unbearable, flowing down directly from the tin roof; Dr. Fischelson felt he was inside of an oven. Several times he climbed the four steps to the window and thrust his head out into the cool of the evening breeze. He would remain in that position for so long his knees would become wobbly.

468 Isaac Singer “Oh it’s a fine breeze,” he would murmur, “really delightful,” and he would recall that according to Spinoza, morality and happiness were identical, and that the most moral deed a man could perform was to indulge in some pleasure which was not contrary to reason. Dr. Fischelson, standing on the top step at the window and looking out, could see into two worlds. Above him were the heavens, thickly strewn with stars. Dr. Fischelson had never seriously studied astronomy but he could differentiate between the planets, those bodies which like the earth, revolve around the sun, and the fixed stars, themselves distant suns, whose light reaches us a hundred or even a thousand years later. He recognized the constellations which mark the path of the earth in space and that nebulous sash, the Milky Way. Dr. Fischelson owned a small telescope he had bought in Switzerland where he had studied and he particularly enjoyed looking at the moon through it. He could clearly make out on the moon’s surface the volcanoes bathed in sunlight and the dark, shadowy craters. He never wearied of gazing at these cracks and crevasses. To him they seemed both near and distant, both substantial and insubstantial. Now and then he would see a shooting star trace a wide arc across the sky and disappear, leaving a fiery trail behind it. Dr. Fischelson would know then that a meteorite had reached our atmosphere, and perhaps some unburned fragment of it had fallen into the ocean or had landed in the desert or perhaps even in some inhabited region. Slowly the stars which had appeared from behind Dr. Fischelson’s roof rose until they were shining above the house across the street. Yes, when Dr. Fischelson looked up into the heavens, he became aware of that infinite extension which is, according to Spinoza, one of God’s attributes. It comforted Dr. Fischelson to think that although he was only a weak, puny man, a changing mode of the absolutely infinite Substance, he was nevertheless a part of the cosmos, made of the same matter as the celestial bodies; to the extent that he was a part of the Godhead, he knew he could not be destroyed. In such moments, Dr. Fischelson experienced the Amor Dei Intellectualis which is, according to the philosopher of Amsterdam, the highest perfection of the mind. Dr. Fischelson breathed deeply, lifted his head as high as his stiff collar permitted and actually felt he was whirling in company with the earth, the sun, the stars of the Milky Way, and the infinite host of galaxies known only to infinite thought. His legs became light and weightless and he grasped the window frame with both hands as if afraid he would lose his footing and fly out into eternity.

469TH E S P I NOZA OF MARKET STRE ET When Dr. Fischelson tired of observing the sky, his glance dropped to Market Street below. He could see a long strip extending from Yanash’s market to Iron Street with the gas lamps lining it merged into a string of fiery dots. Smoke was issuing from the chimneys on the black, tin roofs; the bakers were heating their ovens, and here and there sparks mingled with the black smoke. The street never looked so noisy and crowded as on a summer evening. Thieves, prostitutes, gamblers, and fences loafed in the square which looked from above like a pretzel covered with poppy seeds. The young men laughed coarsely and the girls shrieked. A peddler with a keg of lemonade on his back pierced the general din with his intermittent cries. A watermelon vendor shouted in a savage voice, and the long knife which he used for cutting the fruit dripped with the bloodlike juice. Now and again the street became even more agitated. Fire engines, their heavy wheels clanging, sped by; they were drawn by sturdy black horses which had to be tightly curbed to prevent them from running wild. Next came an ambulance, its siren screaming. Then some thugs had a fight among themselves and the police had to be called. A passer-by was robbed and ran about shouting for help. Some wagons loaded with firewood sought to get through into the courtyards where the bakeries were located but the horses could not lift the wheels over the steep curbs and the drivers berated the animals and lashed them with their whips. Sparks rose from the clanging hoofs. It was now long after seven, which was the prescribed closing time for stores, but actually business had only begun. Customers were led in stealthily through back doors. The Russian policemen on the street, having been paid off, noticed nothing of this. Merchants continued to hawk their wares, each seeking to outshout the others. “Gold, gold, gold,” a woman who dealt in rotten oranges shrieked. “Sugar, sugar, sugar,” croaked a dealer of overripe plums. “Heads, heads, heads,” a boy who sold fishheads roared. Through the window of a Hasidic study house across the way, Dr. Fischelson could see boys with long sidelocks swaying over holy volumes, grimacing and studying aloud in singsong voices. Butchers, porters, and fruit dealers were drinking beer in the tavern below. Vapor drifted from the tavern’s open door like steam from a bathhouse, and there was the sound of loud music. Outside of the tavern, streetwalkers snatched at drunken soldiers and at workers on their way home from the factories. Some of the men carried bundles of wood on their shoulders, reminding Dr. Fischelson of the wicked who are condemned to kindle their own fires in Hell. Husky record players poured out their raspings through open

470 Isaac Singer windows. The liturgy of the high holidays alternated with vulgar vaudeville songs. Dr. Fischelson peered into the half-lit bedlam and cocked his ears. He knew that the behavior of this rabble was the very antithesis of reason. These people were immersed in the vainest of passions, were drunk with emotions, and, according to Spinoza, emotion was never good. Instead of the pleasure they ran after, all they succeeded in obtaining was disease and prison, shame and the suffering that resulted from ignorance. Even the cats which loitered on the roofs here seemed more savage and passionate than those in other parts of the town. They caterwauled with the voices of women in labor, and like demons scampered up walls and leaped onto eaves and balconies. One of the toms paused at Dr. Fischelson’s window and let out a howl which made Dr. Fischelson shudder. The doctor stepped from the window and, picking up a broom, brandished it in front of the black beast’s glowing, green eyes. “Scat, begone, you ignorant savage!”— and he rapped the broom handle against the roof until the tom ran off. When Dr. Fischelson had returned to Warsaw from Zürich, where he had studied philosophy, a great future had been predicted for him. His friends had known that he was writing an important book on Spinoza. A Jewish Polish journal had invited him to be a contributor; he had been a frequent guest at several wealthy households and he had been made head librarian at the Warsaw synagogue. Although even then he had been considered an old bachelor, the matchmakers had proposed several rich girls for him. But Dr. Fischelson had not taken advantage of these opportunities. He had wanted to be as independent as Spinoza himself. And he had been. But because of his heretical ideas he had come into conflict with the rabbi and had had to resign his post as librarian. For years after that, he had supported himself by giving private lessons in Hebrew and German. Then, when he had become sick, the Berlin Jewish community had voted him a subsidy of five hundred marks a year. This had been made possible through the intervention of the famous Dr. Hildesheimer with whom he corresponded about philosophy. In order to get by on so small a pension, Dr. Fischelson had moved into the attic room and had begun cooking his own meals on a kerosene stove. He had a cupboard which had many drawers, and each drawer was labeled with the food it contained—buckwheat, rice, barley, onions, carrots, potatoes, mushrooms. Once a week Dr. Fischelson put on his wide-brimmed black hat, took a basket in one hand and Spinoza’s Ethics in the other, and went off to the market for his provisions. While he was waiting to be served, he

471TH E S P I NOZA OF MARKET STRE ET would open the Ethics. The merchants knew him and would motion him to their stalls. “A fine piece of cheese, Doctor—just melts in your mouth.” “Fresh mushrooms, Doctor, straight from the woods,” “Make way for the Doctor, ladies,” the butcher would shout. “Please don’t block the entrance.” During the early years of his sickness, Dr. Fischelson had still gone in the evening to a café which was frequented by Hebrew teachers and other intellectuals. It had been his habit to sit there and play chess while drinking a half a glass of black coffee. Sometimes he would stop at the bookstores on Holy Cross Street where all sorts of old books and magazines could be purchased cheap. On one occasion a former pupil of his had arranged to meet him at a restaurant one evening. When Dr. Fischelson arrived, he had been surprised to find a group of friends and admirers who forced him to sit at the head of the table while they made speeches about him. But these were things that had happened long ago. Now people were no longer interested in him. He had isolated himself completely and had become a forgotten man. The events of 1905 when the boys of Market Street had begun to organize strikes, throw bombs at police stations, and shoot strikebreakers so that the stores were closed even on weekdays had greatly increased his isolation. He began to despise everything associated with the modern Jew—Zionism, socialism, anarchism. The young men in question seemed to him nothing but an ignorant rabble intent on destroying society, society without which no reasonable existence was possible. He still read a Hebrew magazine occasionally, but he felt contempt for modern Hebrew which had no roots in the Bible or the Mishnah. The spelling of Polish words had changed also. Dr. Fischelson concluded that even the so- called spiritual men had abandoned reason and were doing their utmost to pander to the mob. Now and again he still visited a library and browsed through some of the modern histories of philosophy, but he found that the professors did not understand Spinoza, quoted him incorrectly, attributed their own muddled ideas to the philosopher. Although Dr. Fischelson was well aware that anger was an emotion unworthy of those who walk the path of reason, he would become furious, and would quickly close the book and push it from him. “Idiots,” he would mutter, “asses, upstarts.” And he would vow never again to look at modern philosophy. Every three months a special mailman who only delivered money orders brought Dr. Fischelson eighty rubles. He expected his quarterly allotment at the beginning of July but as day after day passed and the

472 Isaac Singer tall man with the blond moustache and the shiny buttons did not appear, the Doctor grew anxious. He had scarcely a groshen left. Who knows— possibly the Berlin Community had rescinded his subsidy; perhaps Dr. Hildesheimer had died, God forbid; the post office might have made a mistake. Every event has its cause, Dr. Fischelson knew. All was determined, all necessary, and a man of reason had no right to worry. Nevertheless, worry invaded his brain, and buzzed about like the flies. If the worst came to the worst, it occurred to him, he could commit suicide, but then he remembered that Spinoza did not approve of suicide and compared those who took their own lives to the insane. One day when Dr. Fischelson went out to a store to purchase a composition book, he heard people talking about war. In Serbia somewhere, an Austrian prince had been shot and the Austrians had delivered an ultimatum to the Serbs. The owner of the store, a young man with a yellow beard and shifty yellow eyes, announced, “We are about to have a small war,” and he advised Dr. Fischelson to store up food because in the near future there was likely to be a shortage. Everything happened so quickly. Dr. Fischelson had not even decided whether it was worthwhile to spend four groshen on a newspaper, and already posters had been hung up announcing mobilization. Men were to be seen walking on the street with round, metal tags on their lapels, a sign that they were being drafted. They were followed by their crying wives. One Monday when Dr. Fischelson descended to the street to buy some food with his last kopecks, he found the stores closed. The owners and their wives stood outside and explained that merchandise was unobtainable. But certain special customers were pulled to one side and let in through back doors. On the street all was confusion. Policemen with swords unsheathed could be seen riding on horseback. A large crowd had gathered around the tavern where, at the command of the Tsar, the tavern’s stock of whiskey was being poured into the gutter. Dr. Fischelson went to his old café. Perhaps he would find some acquaintances there who would advise him. But he did not come across a single person he knew. He decided, then, to visit the rabbi of the syna- gogue where he had once been librarian, but the sexton with the six- sided skull cap informed him that the rabbi and his family had gone off to the spas. Dr. Fischelson had other old friends in town but he found no one at home. His feet ached from so much walking; black and green spots appeared before his eyes and he felt faint. He stopped and waited for the giddiness to pass. The passers-by jostled him. A dark-eyed high school girl tried to give him a coin. Although the war had just started,